The Aftertaste of Death
by everyday-deeds
Summary: Taking the world from a god is an act of sacrilege requiring will, courage, and an intelligence to match the god in question. Having two of those three traits is a problem for the would-be desecrator, but it won't stop her trying. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**See, I can write serious Death Note fanfiction! It's possible! Anyway this idea has been in my head for a while now and I've only just now gotten to the point where I think I can start posting. I'm going to try to update roughly every week, though that's subject to change depending on how tough college gets. I hope you all enjoy this expansion of the story, and constructive criticism and feedback are always much appreciated!**

**If I owned Death Note, this is how it would have played out.**

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><p>Light Yagami stared at the young man kneeling in the center of the warehouse. Silence was rolling past them both like an endless river. No one moved. Every human in the shadowy building was waiting with bated breath. It was amazing how much time forty seconds had become. In the hopes that those seconds would pass more quickly, he allowed himself observe as much of the warehouse as he could without his eyes wandering suspiciously. It was a humble place for his victory. Dirt covered the walls, and the peeling posters on the abandoned crates were water-stained. Rusted chains hung from abandoned pulleys, and there were missing nails in the paneling of the walls.<p>

By his estimation, five seconds had passed.

He let his attention fall on the group standing around the white-haired boy. The dark haired young man standing just behind the boy had a sharp thin face. For some reason Light's attention fell on his hands, which were strong-boned with long slender fingers. They were the hands of someone used to delicate work. Such as picking locks and forging signatures and documents. Light almost smiled then, but had enough self-control to keep his face blank. There would be time for that later. For now, he had to maintain his composure. He would keep up this act till the end. He fought to keep his own breathing steady, and overall, he felt that he succeeded. The seconds were passing with infinite slowness. He longed to tell Near just how worthless an opponent he was, but knew that the best moment for that would be the moment of the boy's realization. As soon as Near felt that crushing hand on his heart, then, Light decided, he would allow himself a moment of triumph.

Now it was twenty seconds. He turned his attention to the woman.

It was almost a pity, in a way, that he had been saddled with Kiyomi Takada, who had almost no initiative of her own, and had needed to follow instructions so simple that a baby could understand them. He could have used someone like this woman, Halle Lidner. Lidner had daring enough to think for herself, independently of Near. He wondered for a moment how useful she might have been if she had supported Kira's cause. Certainly she would have been a stronger tool than Takada, but in any case, he would have had to dispose of her eventually, as he had disposed of Takada. In the end, she would only have had temporary value.

Thirty seconds had gone by.

The tall man beside Near was of no interest. The quintessential American hero, tall, strong, and willing to die for what he believed to be right. Well, he would die here, and Light hoped he would have some heroic feeling as compensation for the crushing pressure of his heart collapsing.

Near himself was another matter. When Light met those dark shadowed eyes under the ghostly hair, he was sharply reminded of his former nemesis, the one who had died so long ago. Yet this boy was nothing more than a childish admirer of L, who imitated him in the same way little boys fondly imagined themselves to be their favorite superhero. There was nothing in him that was original; he was merely a failed copy of another, no real successor, but rather a warped image of something truly great.

Forty seconds were gone. Light kept his face locked in an emotionless stare, though his hands were sweating and his stomach crawling with anticipation. Now was his time.

The white-haired boy gasped and clutched at his chest, falling forward as he did so. All three members of the SPK cried out as he fell. Light was suddenly struck by how young Near looked as he clutched his pajama shirt, his eyes wide. For an instant, Light was sure he saw fear and terror in the young man's startled face. He opened his mouth to make a speech of gloating victory. Then suddenly the boy's fear died down. He was braced on his right hand, and he was still holding his chest with his left, but his face was terrifyingly calm.

"You did it, Kira," he whispered. "You won."

Before Light could say anything, he crashed to the floor.

The others were not so dignified in their deaths. The tall American died calmly, he admitted, but the dark-haired one was shaking with terror even before he clutched at his heart. The woman, typically, had dashed to Near's side the instant he had fallen. But she actually had frightened Light the most; for she had been able to draw her gun and aim at him before she too had gasped and toppled, clutching at her chest as though that could somehow reverse the process of the heart attack.

The deaths that disappointed him most, on the whole, were those of his own task force. Ide and Aizawa, both fairly hardened policemen, had been shaking, and Ide had almost been weeping. Light was conscious of a faint feeling of disgust when they fell. However Matsuda had shocked him. As soon Aizawa had finally collapsed for good, the young policeman had seemed to understand at last what was happening. And then he had turned to face Light, shouting furiously at him: "Light, how could you do this? How could you have done that to your father! He was your father, Light, and you killed him for this?"

Then he too had fallen, twitching faintly on the warehouse floor before his ragged breathing had finally ceased. Light had watched his corpse for a moment, startled at how long that death had taken. Then he remembered that from his spy's vantage point it would have been harder to see Matsuda's face, which would have been in shadow, and thus his name might have been written down somewhat later than the others. He watched Matsuda's body for a moment, thinking of the irony. In the end, it seemed, of those on his former task force, Matsuda had died with the least amount of fear. "Strange," he whispered at last. "I wonder if you were given extra courage to make up for your lack of intelligence."

Straightening up, he turned to the rusted and warped doorway to the left wall of the warehouse. "Mikami," he said softly, but with the ring of command in his voice. "It's over. You did well."

Slowly the door opened, creaking loudly and sending shrieks of scraping metal throughout the warehouse. Light kept his eyes on the door, eager to see his proxy in person for the first time.

Teru Mikami looked thin and bony in the dim light of the warehouse. Even his well-cut suit and large coat could not hide his narrow frame. There was less substance to him than Light would have guessed from his clear voice and piercing eyes, which were overshadowed by curtains of dark hair. On the whole, he did not look very different from when Light had witnessed him on the television program asking for Kira's guidance. Yet there was something rather impressive about him in person, something that reminded Light of his own fire when he had begun remaking the world in his own name. He was about to commend Mikami on a job well done when the lawyer suddenly dropped to his knees. "God," he whispered reverently. "You are here."

Light watched him thoughtfully, somewhat surprised by this level of devotion. He had known when he had seen Mikami speak on the television show that the young prosecutor was dedicated to Kira's cause, but he had not expected outright worship so soon.

His faint surprise was lost on Mikami, who had bowed his head almost to the warehouse floor. "God," he said in a muffled voice, "I did what you asked me. What do you need me to do now?"

"Sit up," Light said sharply. As flattering as the man's groveling was, it was only serving to delay them in the rather awkward position of being surrounded by several bodies. "We don't have much time here. This warehouse is abandoned, but we can't take the risk that their bodies will be found, at least not immediately. We need to make sure they are hidden in the crates or in some way concealed. Then you and I need to discuss how the world should come to know me as its god."

Mikami rose to his feet without a trace of embarrassment. He removed his glasses and looked long and hard at the corpses that littered the warehouse floor. "If you'll forgive my asking, why do we- you- have to hide the bodies? If they are left here and discovered, it will be attributed to the work of Kira, correct? What is there to fear?"

"That someone might recognize that I'm the only member of the investigating force that survived," Light replied. "The chances are very slim, since the task force's trip to this warehouse wasn't known to anyone on the Japanese Intelligence. But it's remotely possible someone might make the connection."

He stared at the corpses for a moment. Though he enjoyed the prospect of declaring himself openly as Kira, he was not sure that his supporters were devoted enough to accept him when they found out he was only a young man. Not every Kira supporter was a Teru Mikami. The mystery of Kira's identity was partly what lent him his divine reputation. Light thought of the clichéd advice that one should never meet one's childhood heroes. If he exposed himself, a large fraction of people would be disappointed, and their discontent could undo everything he had begun.

He clenched his fists. All his thoughts had been concentrated upon eliminating Near, but now that he had done so, he had to deal with the aftermath. As he looked back over the course of the past few days, there was no real way he could have avoided this meeting. The search for the mystery killer who struck down criminals with heart attacks had been going on for several years now, and Light had only lately come to the position of having control over the Japanese police force searching for him. But then Near had appeared- the mysterious entity stationed in America who had claimed to be the successor to the world's greatest detective, and Light had realized that he was not quite safe yet. His troubles had been answered when Near had suggested a face-to-face meeting. With the aid of the young lawyer who was fanatically devoted to Kira's cause, he had set his plans for Near's death in motion. And now they had come to fruition.

But now Near was lying dead at his feet, and Light had to deal with the consequences. Slowly he paced back and forth between the dead bodies of Matsuda and Aizawa, giving their contorted faces an emotionless glance. Quickly he bent and took the notebook that Aizawa had been carrying. Flipping it over idly for a moment, he tucked it away into his coat and surveyed the bodies a moment longer, his eyes narrowing slightly.

At last he straightened up and looked at Mikami. "Leave them. Write down your phone number and address for me, and then go home. Do nothing until I contact you, and continue judging criminals for me. I have an idea."

Mikami quickly scribbled the required information on the back of a receipt and handed it over. "Very well." He then bowed his head, and then, seeming to feel that this was not enough, dropped quickly to his knees and bowed his head almost to the floor. "Thank you, God."

Light searched his brain for something appropriate to say. If Mikami worshipped him as God, he had to keep that devotion alive as long as he possibly could. His mind raced through vaguely religious phrases. "Mikami, well done. I could not ask for a better servant."

Without looking back he strode back out of the warehouse, slipping out of the heavy door through which he had come. Mikami would go out the side entrance through which he had come and would go back to his home. Light allowed himself a thin smile as he began to work out the details of his next step.

A gravelly voice came suddenly from above his head. "Hey, Light. Now that it's over with Near- what now?"

"Wait and see, Ryuk," the young man replied calmly. The Shinigami was hovering just behind him, his dark wings flapping idly. Light knew if he turned his head he would see the elongated face and toothy grin that perpetually hid everything the god of death might be thinking. But Light had known him for several years, long enough to know that the death god wanted entertainment. And as long as he still had work to do, Light knew the Shinigami would certainly be entertained.

He strode briskly through the streets, not bothering to pay the passerby any attention. After a few moments he came to the cleaner parts of the city, where the skyscrapers rose proudly into a dusty grey sky. Taking a deep breath, Light began to walk faster toward a tall brown building that managed to somehow be indistinct even while towering above most of its neighbors. When he shoved the doors aside he looked around almost frantically, as though he was in a terrible hurry. One of the receptionists spotted him immediately and gave him a smile that died away as Light almost ran to him. "Light, are you all right?" the man asked.

"No. I have to see the director right away. It's urgent. I must speak to him."

With a nervous glance, the man quickly pressed a few buttons on his phone and relayed Light's message. There was a brief pause before he glanced quickly at Light. "You can go up."

Light nodded and passed the desk quickly. Once he had reached the elevators he closed his eyes, weighing every word and gesture that he would have to use to convince the director of his story. It should not be too hard for him to do, given that the director of Intelligence had been mildly acquainted with some of his team, but he could not risk the man inquiring too deeply because of a slip in acting.

He reached the director's office and felt a faint stirring of memory at the sight of the placard on the adjacent door, which read "Deputy Director." But he brushed the thought aside and went into the director's office as soon as he heard the sharp "Come in!"

Light went inside and closed the door, driving a hand through his long bronze hair as he did so. It was a deliberate gesture, one that many people associated with agitation, and he had a feeling the director of Intelligence would be no exception. It seemed to work; there was a look of faint concern in the man's eyes as he looked up at the young man before him.

Slowly Light walked toward the desk, staring at the carpet as though in a daze. "Director," he said slowly. "I don't- I don't even know how to begin to tell you this. But recently- a few days ago, in fact, we had contact with N, the member of the American organization that was still investigating Kira. He wanted us to meet him out in a warehouse near one of the docks, saying that he had important information that would help us catch Kira."

He paused as though to gather himself and the director stirred behind his desk. "Did he have any worthwhile information? Did you go?"

Light swallowed and looked at the floor as though ashamed. "No sir. I didn't go. I was going to- N was very adamant that everyone had to be there. I stayed because- Matsuda told me that he thought that as L's successor, I had to do as he had done- hide my face." He buried his head in his hands before straightening up and composing himself. But he made sure to keep a note of anguish in his voice.

"So I told the others that they should go to meet N," he went on. "I wanted one of them to wear a wire at the least so I could hear what was going on. Matsuda volunteered for that, naturally. And they all went to the warehouse."

"And?" The director sounded impatient.

Light looked up at the older man as though he needed his support. "They were all killed by Kira."

The director, a thin-haired man with a nose too large for his narrow face, caught his breath, and for one moment he looked stricken. "All of them?" His voice was composed, but Light could see his trembling hands.

"All of them," Light said softly. "I didn't know what had happened at first. I had Matsuda wearing a wire so I could hear what was being said, and for a while I could hear a little. N was talking about how he'd narrowed Kira's identity down to three possible suspects. He was about to name them when I heard him stop. Then- the whole wire just went wild. I could hear people gasping, shouting- I think someone might even have been crying or begging for mercy." He swallowed and began to clench and unclench his fist as though he was having difficulty controlling himself. "Then everything went dead. I kept trying to establish communication between them, but I couldn't get anything to work, and I finally ran down there myself."

"You should have called for backup," the director interrupted. "That was a reckless thing to do, Light, you knew that Kira was there and you-"

"I'd just heard them dying!" Light shouted, hoping he had the right balance of indignation, fear, and sorrow. "I'd just heard them all dying over the microphone and there was nothing I could do about it!" He took a deep breath. "You're right, sir. I'm sorry. But at the time, I didn't know what else to do. I ran down there and found- found all the bodies. The wire Matsuda had been wearing had been taken off and the whole place was deserted. And I saw N." He hesitated a moment. "And he was just a child, sir. He was… very young. And Kira had just killed him."

The director stood and began to pace the floor. "You didn't touch the bodies in any way?"

"No, sir. I came straight here."

"All right. I'll get the police and tell them to get the bodies from the warehouse- where is it?"

"It's the Yellow Box Warehouse, sir."

"Very well. And Light, you and I are going to have to talk about what to do next. We have to decide how we're going to approach Kira." The man sighed and rubbed a hand on his face. "I don't understand how he could have orchestrated that meeting, or known about it."

Light shrugged. "I'm not sure." He paused a moment, trying to determine whether it was safe to provide speculation or stay silent. Since he had stepped in as the greatest detective in the world, it was probably wisest to offer some input. "If he had a pawn in the SPK, he could have found out and then gone to the meeting to try and dispose of all his enemies at once. And then killed his pawn to make sure they couldn't betray him."

"Do you think he'll come after you?"

Light rose and walked to the window. "I don't know, sir. I joined the force after Kira had become a threat, so I wasn't required to have a photo I.D., and my father insisted that I keep my involvement a secret from everyone except my immediate family. Kira might try to come after L, but I don't think he knows me as L. He might even believe that he disposed of L in the warehouse. Maybe he'll get careless if we just sit back and wait for little while."

The director went to his desk and called up the police desk to brusquely give the order to fetch the bodies from Yellow Box as discretely as possible. After he hung up the phone he fixed Light with a sharp eye. "You think we should sit back and wait? Even though Kira's still killing criminals worldwide?"

Light pondered how he could best answer that. He hoped with all his heart that he was not going to have to kill the director; such a move would be risky if it became necessary, and he was not entirely sure yet that he could get by without the Japanese Intelligence. "I think it might be safest," he said at last. "Hear me out, sir. If Kira thinks he killed L and the two main task forces who were after him, he may get careless. He may even announce himself publically. And when he does that, we'll be able to arrest him with hard evidence."

The director pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. "True. Is that worth the cost, do you think? What do you estimate the death toll will be if we let him go on? He's been killing people just accused of crimes. Is that worth it, do you think? So many people dying?"

"Do we have a choice, sir? I don't like it any more than you, but is there anything else we can do? We've been dealt a serious blow. I'm going to have to explain to the NPA that the task force has been wiped out in one blow. Do you think they'll want to form another with the risks like that? And I couldn't even keep my own task force safe." Light stared broodingly at the carpet for a moment. "What kind of successor to L am I?"

He heard the director rise. "Go home for now," the man said wearily. "We'll talk this over tomorrow. You've been working like a maniac lately, or so I've been told. Go make sure your family knows you're all right."

"I can't do that yet," Light said softly. "I have to go tell the families of the others, sir. I need to make sure they know their loved ones died like heroes." Immediately he wanted to kick himself. That was overly saccharine even for his persona as the devotee of justice.

But the director took no notice. "You're right, but you don't have to tell them yourself."

Light shook his head. "I should. It's only right. I worked with them for a long time, and letting anyone else go to them- it would feel like I was hiding. It's something I feel I should do."

He shook hands with his superior and turned away, well aware of the sympathetic look the older man gave him. For now the director seemed completely fooled, though Light knew well enough that silencing him might still be necessary. But at the moment it seemed that all was going smoothly. And once again he was free to use a Death Note himself. He walked to the door, keeping his head lowered and shoulders slumped, and was hard-pressed to hold back a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**I still own nothing related to Death Note in any way, shape, or form. A pity- I could really use the money.**

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><p>It was an hour or so past midnight when Light finally returned to the tiny little house where he had spent so many years of his life. He could see a light in the kitchen window, and knew right away that his mother had been waiting for a phone call or a car pulling up in front of the house. Ever since the death of his father so many years ago, and the horrific damage the events surrounding that death had wrought on his sister, Light knew that she had become resigned to suffering.<p>

He opened the front door quietly and carefully arranged his face into an expression of exhaustion and grief before approaching the kitchen. His mother was sitting there alone, her hands folded in front of her. In the pale overhead light the grey in her short hair outshone the brown, and the age lines of her rounded face looked as though they had been carved by a rough chisel. Light sat opposite her and rested his chin on hands. "How's Sayu?"

"The same as ever."

Sachiko Yagami's voice had the weariness of someone who had lived a hundred jaded lifetimes, and her son found himself marveling at the knowledge that she was only forty-eight years old. He swallowed and looked his mother full in the face, something he had found increasingly difficult to do. With every passing day, they grew strangers to each other. It was necessary perhaps; a god should not have the vulnerability of human bonds. Yet he could not deny that the distance between them ached at times. The lines between her nose and mouth had deepened, and the shadows under her eyes had only grown darker. He sighed. This was what happened to innocent people at the hands of criminals and evildoers, and for the sake of preventing more faces destroyed by such suffering, he knew he would have to go on with his crusade. He could not let the world fall back into the place it had been, where sights like this had been so common.

She stirred suddenly, moving her hands to her lap and clearing her throat. "I was worried," she said after a moment. "I didn't know where you were or what had happened. I thought I was going to see another police car outside."

"I know. I'm sorry, Mom. I am." He paused, trying to find the right words with which to convey his news. "The car did pull up for some people, Mom. It was just today- Kira was able to find us. He- well, he killed almost all the task force." He heard her draw breath sharply, and felt, rather than saw, her hands clench the edge of the table. "I almost went with them," he said tonelessly. "Matsuda told me that I should stay back, though. Since I was replacing L. He- I guess you could say he saved my life. And I think even if he'd known what was going to happen, he would have said the same anyway." He had said the exact same words to Matsuda's father earlier, but had a feeling they would do well enough for his mother.

When he saw her eyes filling with tears, he had to look away. "Mom, it's…" He hesitated for a moment. "I know it was close. But I promise, I won't let this happen again. I'll make sure they won't have died in vain. I promised all their families, and I promise you, I'm going to make sure Kira pays."

"You promised their families," she repeated. "What about your family, Light? What about me and Sayu?" Her voice had a brittle shaky quality that Light found almost unbearable. He stared at the table as she went on. "What about what will happen if you die too? We've lost too much to Kira, Light! I know you want justice, but I want my family! I want my children safe- and I can't even have that, not with Sayu. So I want you safe, Light. I want you to be with me and your sister. I don't care about Kira anymore. I just want my family safe from him- from the world."

For a moment they were both quiet. At last Light took a deep breath. "Mom, I can't promise that I won't stop chasing Kira. But the director and I talked about it, and we think it might actually be best to wait and see what Kira does. He may expose himself inadvertently, or do something to alienate those who follow him. Nothing's definite yet, but we may end up waiting. And if that happens- I'll probably be transferred to the NPA. Some office job. And I'll be able to be here more often for both you and Sayu. I'm not trying to put myself in danger, you know that. I just want what's best for the world."

She clasped his hand in hers, and swallowed. "I know, Light," she whispered after a moment. "When you were a child, I know you wanted everything to be perfect. Always, you wanted everything as it should be, even though it wasn't that way. You always worked for it. I trust you'll do what's right." She looked up and once again he had a hard time meeting her gaze. "But know that I'll always love you even without it."

He nodded and said nothing, wondering whether the long silence that had stood between them had contributed to her candidness now. After a moment he pressed her hand and rose. "Good night, Mom."

"Are you going to stay here tonight?"

She sounded hopeful and Light hesitated. His fiancée Misa would be long asleep and he could call her in the morning to let her know where he had been. If she doubted him, she could always call his mother. In any case, he hardly cared what she thought of him anymore. He had learned to deal with her jealous tantrums with equanimity. "Sure, I'll stay. Is my room still open, or will it be the couch?"

His mother smiled faintly. "Your room's made up. I always keep it made up, just in case you might need it."

"Thanks, Mom." He ascended the stairs without looking back.

Once he reached the sanctuary of the bedroom, he closed his eyes, knowing that if he turned his head he would see the Shinigami lurking in the corner. He lay still, pondering every step he had taken. He had been able to anticipate Near's plan readily enough; that of replacing pages of the notebook with fake ones, and clearly Mikami had done his part to avert the success of that. It had been so easy. What Light found less easy to understand was the way Kiyomi Takada, his former spokesperson and mouthpiece to the world, had been kidnapped. She had been taken on her way back from delivering a broadcast of Kira's messages when a mysterious biker had tricked her into coming with him. That biker Light was sure was Mello, one of L's potential successors and a very dangerous individual into the bargain. What puzzled Light was that he knew from the fiasco of Mello's interference in Los Angeles that the young man had had intelligence. It was very hard to see what Mello had hoped to accomplish by kidnapping Takada.

It had thrown people into a panic, yes. But the panic had been confined largely to Japan, where reverence for Kira, the judge of criminals and wrongdoers, was strongest. The rest of the world had watched with interest, but hardly had been on the edge of their seats to find out what had happened. And even with the panic that had ensued, Light could not figure out why Mello had been willing to take such a risk. He must have known that kidnapping the spokesperson for a new god would end in disaster.

He sat up suddenly, remembering the woman who had been Takada's bodyguard. Halle Lidner. She had been a member of Near's force against Kira, and now that Light thought about it, people at the scene had said she had been the one to direct Takada to Mello in the first place. "She was working for Mello," he whispered aloud. "That's it. She was working for Mello as well as Near. She must have told him about the notebook Mikami had. So how does that tie into the kidnapping? If Takada was out of reach, Mikami and I couldn't communicate. We know Near was counting on Mikami having a fake page at the time of Yellow Box. If Mello knew that, he might have realized that that plan wouldn't work. So he kidnapped Takada- for what? To incriminate me by forcing me to openly approach Mikami? That wouldn't have worked, there wasn't enough evidence… but if Mikami- Mikami would have known that the kidnapping wasn't planned. Maybe Mello meant to trick Mikami into giving himself away somehow by having him use the note. That might have been it." He straightened up and began to unbutton his shirt cuffs.

"Hey Light, do you mind not talking to yourself?"

Light's brown eyes flickered towards the shinigami. All he could see in the gloom were Ryuk's bulging eyes, and he turned away with distaste. "If it bothers you, you could always spend your time with Mikami."

"Him? The only time he gets remotely interesting is when he's writing in the death note, and even then he's too wrapped up in shouting 'delete.' It gets a little creepy after a while."

"You're hardly one to talk about creepy," Light said coldly.

"Maybe not, but most humans aren't like Mikami, and since I've been here a while now, I've seen enough to know he's more than a little nuts. Besides, you're the one with the plan, and that's the main reason I'm still down here."

Light's lips twitched up to a very faint smile. "True. And now it's on to the next stage, Ryuk. I've eliminated my immediate dangers. Now it's time to take care of the opposition."

"You do realize there are several thousands of people who oppose Kira, right?"

"I do. But if you want to get the masses to stop writhing, cut off their heads. It's like killing a snake."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll find out, Ryuk."

The next morning he ate breakfast alone. His mother had gone out to get some small grocery items and had asked Light to watch Sayu while she was away. Light had been annoyed by this, but he could not come up with a good reason to refuse her and had found himself arranging his younger sister's fragile body in a chair.

For a moment he had stayed in the same room, watching her. Sayu Yagami had once been beautiful, with a smart mouth, a quick laugh, and a warm smile that could put everyone around her at ease. But then she had been kidnapped by Mello in that individual's quest for the Death Note, and ever since she had been restored to her family, she had been catatonic, unable to move or speak freely. But her eyes still followed those who came to visit her, and Light found the lifeless stare of those brown eyes unnerving. He tried to speak to her several times and simply could not bring himself to do so. He remembered vividly how, when she had been kidnapped, he had contemplated killing her to secure his own safety, and that memory seemed to choke him whenever he tried to say something to her. He was deeply relieved when his mother finally came home and he was able to leave to meet the director of Intelligence.

After several hours of talk, it was decided that Light should take a hiatus and work as a profiler in the Intelligence department with a special concentration on anything that pertained to Kira. On the whole Light felt that he was safe, at least for the moment. The director suspected nothing, and he felt that his performance in the conference room had been convincing. The police chiefs and heads of state had seen a young man who longed for justice, was battered by grief, but still possessed of the reason and capability for which they had hired him five years before.

He had seen nothing but a roomful of fools who had no real input in the influence of the world.

As soon as he was clear of the police building and walking to the apartment he shared with Misa Amane, the famous model and actress, he switched on his cellphone. As he had expected, she had called him five times since eight that morning. Sighing, he dialed her number and was immediately greeted with a high-pitched squeal. "Light! Where are you? Misa missed you last night."

He could hear faint laughter in the background and guessed she was in her dressing room or having makeup applied. There was a faint strain in her voice, but she was outwardly cheerful, obviously putting on a show for those around her. "I know, Misa. I'm going to back home for a while now; I'll explain the details to you when I see you tonight."

"You're coming home?" she cried. "Oh Light, thank you! I'll make sure to wear my very best tonight, you'll see! I'll make sure it's special!"

He rolled his eyes. "All right. I'll see you then."

As soon as he hung up, he fished the receipt with Mikami's phone number out of his pocket and dialed. The young man answered quickly. Light briefly ordered him to join him at a small café in downtown Tokyo that was a few blocks away from Mikami's office and the lawyer eagerly agreed. After that was done, he took a sudden deep breath. The whole world was at his feet now, but a misstep could still send him tumbling. He had to proceed carefully, slowly go about altering the world to his image and ideal. To have finally triumphed over the petty human obstacles was one thing, but now he had to move on to rising above humanity at large. It would be easier for him to move freely, but he was going to have to choose his moves very carefully now. It was easy to manipulate people, but the trouble was that he could never be completely sure of what they might do. It only took one outspoken person, one unknown factor, and the entire world could be swayed. He knew that better than anyone else. He had been a naïve child with a notebook when he had set off on this path.

When he came to the café, Mikami was already there at a corner table. He had only a small cup of coffee in front of him and though he thankfully did not address Light as God, he still bowed his head as Light seated himself. Light ordered a cup of tea and took a blank sheet of paper out of his pocket.

"I've been thinking about the problem we face," he said blandly. "The… market is tricky." Mikami's eyebrows wrinkled in confusion for a second before comprehension dawned. As soon as he was sure the lawyer understood him, Light went on, "We need to find a way to keep the people we have and draw new ones in. I understand we have some minor competition right now, so who would you identify as the key influences?"

Mikami ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "I think… Rome is a problem." It was Light's turn to be confused, and the lawyer quickly sketched a small cross in the upper right hand corner of the paper.

Light nodded. Religion was something he had only paid sporadic attention to over the course of his time as L and Kira; he had been too occupied with keeping Kira's name alive and remaining undercover. But Mikami was right. Almost every world religion had spoken against Kira with varying degrees of condemnation. The Pope had probably the widest single influence; one word from that man on Kira and a very powerful world entity could be turned on itself and squabbling. It would not do away with the opposition altogether, but it would greatly lessen its influence. He gave Mikami an appreciative glance and saw that the lawyer was sketching a few more symbols on the page. Light caught a glimpse of the crescent and star, which he vaguely recalled was the symbol for Islam, as well as the star of David. There were others which he did not recognize, but he understood Mikami's meaning well enough. If he was to be established as a true God, without opposition, he would have to eliminate his rivals. And on a worldwide scale, religion in general was the greatest opponent he faced.

"I'll leave that to you, then," he said after a moment. "I have some other things to take care of closer to home, but once I get those smaller things sorted out, I'll be able to help you out with the bigger picture. Is there anything in particular you think we should go over now that we have the chance?"

Mikami folded his glasses and turned them over in his hand. "Have we given any thought to structure? We'll have to undergo some changes soon."

Light pondered that for a moment. "True. But I think we can wait until the general foundation and direction is more secure." He paused. "In the events of the past few days- during that time where we couldn't communicate with each other- what were your actions?"

At Mikami's look of confusion, Light leaned forward slightly and said in a very low voice, "Mello and his actions. What did you do when you found out what happened?"

A faint look of bewilderment still hung in Mikami's eyes, but he shrugged. "I was not sure what to do. I thought about acting; I was unsure if you needed my help- but in the end, I decided that faith in you was the best course."

Light's brow wrinkled. So it seemed Mello's actions had been merely to get Mikami to act in a way to expose his identity as Kira. At that he could not hide a smirk; the young ex-Mafia who had been so troublesome had died in vain, which was satisfying to know. It also revealed a crucial detail of Mikami's character, one that Light had only seen hints of before: if anything went wrong or awry, the prosecutor would look to his god for guidance. He had to be aware of that; it was a trait that could be exploited in many ways.

He came out of his thoughts to see Mikami bowing his head with as much deference as he could get away with in the café. Light accepted the adulation without comment and rose to his feet. "I think we should meet here again next week, same time, same place," he said. "I'll expect the same good work I've seen from you in the past."

He left the café without a backward glance and took a deep breath, savoring the open air. He was not used to such freedom. It had been so long since he had been free of constant pursuit. He had almost forgotten how easy things had been when no one knew that he was Kira. For the first time in years, he was feeling alive. The world was his to mold as he thought it ought to be, and there was no one now to stop him. Even as he headed back to his apartment and the welcoming shrieks of the woman who adored him, he could not stop smiling. And when Misa burst into the apartment, laughing with joy at a good day of work and the presence of her lover, he actually found himself smiling at her and kissing her as though he truly meant every sweet lie he had told her over the years.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm really hoping for feedback on this chapter- con-crit, what worked, etc. Introducing a character who has one line in canon is a bit of an adventure...  
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**If I owned Death Note, there would be a spinoff devoted to exploring the Shinigami realm. I want to know more about their society (or lack thereof).**

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><p>She leaned against the doorway for a moment, unable to understand why Roger had not turned on the lights. Though he could be anti-social enough when he chose, sitting alone in the dark with his back to the door was extreme even for him. Not to mention that he had paid no attention to her knock or her opening the door.<p>

Shifting her weight from one foot to another, she finally coughed. "Roger? I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've got to teach a class in a half an hour and I do need to get those documents." She hesitated. "You did get them together, right? I'm sorry to be a bother about this, but I don't have much time to spare."

Her slightly rounded voice with just a hint of Cockney seemed to jar with the gloom of the room. Linda lowered her head with a sigh, wondering if her old guardian was just having a bad day. He had never been particularly good with children; that had always been Wammy's area of expertise. And now Roger had to care for orphans with minimal help or thanks. Linda knew from experience that Roger Ruvie was a decent person, but very uneasy around younger children. A faint smile came to her thin lips as she imagined Quillish Wammy, the late benefactor of the home, ever so politely bullying poor Roger into setting up an orphanage with him. When she had been younger, she had always found Roger slightly terrifying with his lanky build and clothes that made him look fresh out of a tomb. It was not until she had turned fourteen that she had begun to talk with him regularly and discovered a dry sense of humor and an occasional smile behind the glasses. And ever since, she had had a fondness for him.

But her fondness was now fast turning into impatience. "Roger," she said a bit more sharply. "You all right, then? Why are you just sitting here?" Reaching out, she flicked on a light switch.

That got his attention. His swivel chair swung around to reveal a thin man with a long nose and a loose mop of greying hair that hung in his shadowed eyes. Linda blinked at the sight of him; he looked as though he had not slept for several hours, or as if he had slept in his chair with nightmares for company. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Something happen to one of the kids?"

"Near's dead."

Linda stared, unable to believe she'd heard him correctly. "Near's dead? How's that possible? What happened?"

"He stepped into L's shoes, as I'm sure you remember. And the first thing he did was go after Kira, as soon as he was old enough to persuade people."

"The idiot," Linda breathed, though she knew Near had had far more intelligence then any two Wammy's children put together. "And did he decide to a face to face confrontation? What happened to him?"

She knew about Kira; most of the world did at this point. The unknown killer of criminals had been on the loose for more than five years. She knew Near had gone after him and she believed he had wanted to, especially when Kira was the reason L, one of the orphanage's idols, was dead. What she could not believe was that he had lost. The small white-haired child with large eyes and a puzzle obsession had been one of the most intelligent and focused people she had ever known. "What happened to him?" she repeated.

"I only just finished reading this." Roger handed over a letter that had been lying on his desk. "And it doesn't say much about what happened."

Linda grabbed it. Even though the letter was typed, Near's cold, reasoned personality seemed to leap off the letters:

_Dear Roger,  
>If you've received this file, it means that I and my co-workers on the SPK have been killed by Kira. I thought that the chances of him being able to beat us were low, especially when I had Mello's help. But if you are reading this I may have underestimated his accomplice, or miscalculated the involvement of the Shinigami. Either way, this letter is proof that I failed, just as L did.<em>

_I've put all information I have pertaining to the Kira case in the files along with this letter. It will be up to you to decide what to do with them. I have no idea if anyone in Wammy's is able to take up L's position. It is possible you may not want this to happen. _

_Please note that though these files present all my knowledge of the case, I have absolutely no proof for my allegations. If you decide to use this information to pursue this case, then you need to be aware that you will have to obtain evidence against the person I believe to be Kira. Your task will also be more difficult given that many governments are beginning to accept and acknowledge Kira. It may be safer for everyone concerned if you simply destroy this file._

_No matter what you decide, the next move in the game is yours. _

_Sincerely, Near. _

She looked up. "You've got the rest of the files? You know who Kira is?"

"I haven't opened it yet," Roger said acidly. "I've been wondering whether or not what Near suggests is the best option-just burning the file and letting Kira do what he wants."

Linda placed the letter back onto his desk. "Why?"

"Why? Linda, I was never happy with Wammy's idea of raising a horde of geniuses for no other reason than that the world needs an L, and now we've lost not only the original L, but three of the children who tried to step up in his place against this person! Five if you count what happened to Beyond and poor A. Am I just supposed to keep feeding the brightest kids here into this battle?"

"I didn't mean it like that. Just that- if what Near said is true- we know the identity of the world's most powerful serial killer."

"When I have a full orphanage to care for, that's not exactly comforting knowledge to have."

Linda nodded, unsure of what to say. She looked around the office, recalling the few occasions she'd been here for punishment for getting into a fight, and later the quiet talks she'd sometimes had with Roger and occasionally Wammy himself. She remembered seeing Near coming out of this office once or twice when she was younger, and though she'd asked him every time what he'd done, he'd always said quietly, "Nothing much." Once she had listened through the door and heard Near calmly discussing a series of gruesome murders that had taken place in the south of England. It had terrified her, both the topic of discussion and Near's calmness at discussing it.

And now he was dead.

"He was in Japan, wasn't he?" she muttered after a moment. "Going after Kira. That's weird for him- he must have been pretty sure that he could have beaten him."

Roger fiddled with the letter. "Near was always sure. It was part of the reason he didn't do much other than fiddle with those damned puzzles of his. He knew he was good at those. He watched people because he was good at figuring them out. He didn't like talking because he was never sure of what the outcome of a conversation was. It doesn't seem like it did him much good in the end."

His long bony hand was shaking as he picked up the letter again. Linda watched him, wondering for a moment if he cared like this for every single orphan to some degree. It was true that Wammy, the founder and benefactor of the orphanage who had died five years ago, had always been kinder and more approachable. But it was always Roger who'd been there, watching the children, dealing with their disputes, making sure they had enough to eat. She heard the distant shouts of playtime from one of the higher levels of the house and wondered if every orphan meant something to Roger, just a little. She would never have imagined he felt so strongly about Near.

He glanced up at her as though he had sensed her thoughts. "I shouldn't have told him about Kira," he said abruptly. "I shouldn't have let him or Mello go out the way they did. I should have done something about it. Both of them, Mello and Near, were in my office the day we found out L and Wammy died- did you know that? And like an idiot, I did what I was supposed to- told them what had happened."

Linda shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "It's not like you were trying to get them killed, you know. And there was a good bit of time before Near went after Kira, so it's not like he didn't have time to think over what he was doing. Right?"

From his bitter expression and half-hearted shrug, she guessed her words were doing little to make her former guardian feel any better. Coughing slightly, she rose to her feet. Now was not a good time to ask about the release documents. "Um, Roger, I've got to go teach that class, all right? But I'll be back after, if, you know, you want to talk about it."

He barely inclined his head, his eyes still fixed on the letter. Linda turned and hurried out, very conscious that she was going to need a miracle of traffic lights in order to get to the little youth center on time. She hustled through the crowds of people, barely bothering to move out of their way. The chilly London air was nipping at her ears and fingers, and showing up late for the first shift of her first job as an independent adult would be a problem she could not face right now.

She had not known Near particularly well, nor Matt or Mello for that matter, but she did know Roger and what she knew of Kira was enough to make her very worried. L, Near, Mello, and Matt. The smartest people to emerge from Wammy's House, and they were all dead because of Kira. More than once she found herself glancing over her shoulder, giving a second look at those who seemed to be looking at her. She found herself shying away from those who brushed against her, and took a deep breath. Even Kira had to have the limitations of space. If he- it- was in Japan, he could not be here.

Brushing her thick brown hair back behind her ears, she darted across a busy street to the youth center. It was the first of many classes she would be teaching there, and hopefully concentrating on helping children sketch a face accurately would take her mind off the news that one of the most intelligent people in the world had been defeated by a god-like killer.

After the classes ended, she hurried back to the orphanage. Snowflakes were falling as she pulled open the heavy gate and walked up to the building. Roger was not in his office when she arrived, but the receptionist knew Linda from her time at the orphanage and let her wait in the darkened room. While she waited she found herself constantly looking at the desk, where a thick envelope lay. Near's letter rested on top of that, and her fingers were itching to open the file and see what he had found. But the letter and the file had been sent to Roger and so she reluctantly waited.

He came in looking even more exhausted than ever and did not even register surprise at her presence in his office. Giving her a distracted nod, he sank into his chair and switched on the television in the far corner almost absently. For a moment or two he stared at the screen with a blank expression, massaging his temples slowly.

Linda watched, feeling sorry for him. When she had been a child, she had always looked to Roger to make things better, had talked to him when she was tired, worried, or had questions. Seeing him this vulnerable was unsettling, and even though she was eighteen and now living alone, she could not shake the worry that came with a problem that not even an authority figure could make something right. Perhaps it was her turn to step up for him. "You all right, then?" she asked softly. "What's the matter?"

"I have to decide whether or not I'm going to set the next L in shape to go after Kira," he said grimly. "The child with the best test scores and potential to deduct and reason is eight. Eight years old." He let the number hang in the air a moment. "I can't do that. I can't live with sending another kid into the… the guillotine that's Kira."

Linda shifted uncomfortably. "But does that have to mean we don't do anything?"

"I don't know. What do you think? We're only dealing with a mass murderer who's beaten some of the best minds in the world."

"If we can just find some way to expose whoever it is, pin them down somehow-"

"If we do that, do you think anyone would actually try to stop him? There'd be outcry, yes. And there'd be adulation. He's got enough supporters that any attempt to out him could just lead to him getting more power than ever."

"Then we have to stop him."

"Really? And how would we go about that?"

Linda sighed. "I don't know. But should we sit back and let him take over the world?"

"I'm not going to send another child up against a serial killer, if that's what you mean." He leaned back and looked almost ill. "Other than that- who knows. I may just burn the file. We might be safer that way."

In her gut she felt that Roger was right; the orphanage and everyone associated with it would probably be safer if he just burned the file, put Kira out of mind, and left him to those who should have been concerned with stopping him in the first place. She also felt in her gut that burning the file would be the first step in letting the world go to hell. Clearing her throat, she straightened up in her chair. "Oh, Roger? When I came earlier today, I needed to get my documents that have the official release from Wammy's. Just so I've got them handy. I forgot to get them last week when I moved out."

"Oh? Scatterbrained artist," Roger grumbled, but Linda thought she saw a faint smile on his face and felt a little better. Perhaps burning the file would be the best thing for him as well. In a way it might give him the closure he needed from the deaths of Near, Mello, and Matt. She sat upright as her former guardian began rooting through his desk, and her gaze fell on the television. For a moment she stared at it, unable to believe what she was seeing. Then she sprang to her feet. "Roger! Look!"

The broadcaster, for all her sculpted hair and impeccably made up face, looked horribly shaken. In a shaking voice, she addressed the camera. "_We've just received a breaking news bulletin. Religious leaders worldwide are dying of mysterious causes with symptoms of massively potent heart attacks. The archbishop of Canterbury has just collapsed, and according to anonymous sources, he has died. There are unconfirmed reports from the Vatican that the pope has just been stricken with a massive heart attack, but there is no official word yet on his condition. The chief rabbi of Israel was apparently taken ill in an address and we have no further updates. We have no way of knowing if more reports will emerge, but one thing all these religious leaders had in common was the recent expression of opposition to the mysterious entity known as Kira. We're trying to get some more details as more reports come in; stay tuned."_

The screen cut to a commercial abruptly and Linda and Roger were both left staring at the screen in silence. Linda could scarcely comprehend what she had just seen. She had no particular religion herself, but to actually witness the news of worldwide slaughter just because of speaking against Kira was horrifying. "Why now?" she found herself asking aloud. "Why do this now? He didn't do anything like this earlier- it was mostly concentrated in Japan, American, and some of the poorer third world African countries. It wasn't anything like this."

"He's free to act as he chooses now," Roger said grimly. "And now that Near's out of his way, he thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants with the world."

Linda swallowed and looked at the ground. "Not a good image there."

"No." He yanked open a drawer savagely and flipped through the files there to yank out a few sheets of paper with the signatures that authorized Linda's release from the orphanage. "I can't send another child against that," he mumbled, almost to himself. "I can't."

"I know," Linda said very quietly. "We shouldn't have to. This is something the police, the armies, governments should be dealing with. We can't send kids to do that job for them." She was silent a long time before adding in an even lower voice, "But he shouldn't be allowed to go on like this."

Roger shoved the papers across the desk. "There you go."

Linda stared at the forms for a moment wondering if she had gone completely mad. The world certainly had. It had begun five years ago when the world's most brilliant detective had failed the most important case of his life. And it had not gotten better since. Perhaps it was for that reason that she found herself speaking again, and she was somehow proud that her voice stayed level. "Roger, can I take home the file? The one that Near sent?"

His head jerked up like it was attached to a puppet string. "Why?"

"I just want to look at it. Just see what Near found out."

His glasses gleamed sharply in the warm light of the desk lamp. "Oh really? You just want to look? Are you thinking of going after him yourself?"

"No. Not if I can help it. But I want to see if there's maybe something, anything that would give a hint about what we should do next."

He glared at her. "Linda, everyone who's gone against Kira has died. Everyone."

"I know." She did not meet his eyes. "But this is personal, now, don't you think? He's killed your friend Wammy, he's killed L, the one who helped make the reputation of this place. He's killed Near, Mello, and Matt. Don't you think maybe we should do something about it?"

Roger began to clean his glasses slowly. "Thinking that way will make you emotional. And Near and L and Mello and Matt could all tell you that's the best way to slip up against this Kira."

Linda took a deep breath and slowly reached out for the file. "I'll be careful."

"You'd better. I'm going to burn that as soon as you give it back to me, so you know. You're an adult now. Whatever you do is your business, but I'm not putting anyone else in danger for it. Give it back to me tomorrow."

She nodded and dropped the envelope into her shoulder bag before leaving the warmth of the orphanage for the whirling snow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Just to get this out of the way now- I think Light is a bit out of character in this chapter. I have reasons for writing him the way I did, but he still feels a bit off to me. This was about as good as it got, given finals and whatnot, but if a****nyone has any issues with how it turned out, let me know and hopefully I'll be able to make some improvement. **

**I don't own Death Note.**

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><p>The luxurious apartment was silent save for the scratching of a pen on paper. On the large desk a lamp threw a glaring pool of light onto the black notebook in which Light was writing. The pale glow of his computer monitor cast sharp shadows on his thin hands, which looked almost skeletal. Sighing, he leaned back to relax his fingers. He had a sudden uncomfortable vision of another pair of thin bony hands that had worked tirelessly to capture him, and shoved that image away. There was no need to dwell on the risks and obstacles in his past. At least not until later, when he could say for sure that all his obstacles had been truly set aside. And he still had a few in his way, namely discontent among people in general and the fact that he was still mistrusted by many, especially now that Mikami had taken such a drastic step when it came to the leaders of world religions. It seemed to have accomplished what Light had hoped; he had frequented religious websites and occasionally taken a pamphlet to see the state of the religious community, and it was in even better shape than he could have expected. There were arguments, debates, heated and angry comments, but it seemed the tide was pulling everyone religious to look on Kira as a new manifestation of God. It was not surprising that the religious community would be so easy to manipulate, but it almost made him uneasy. It was going so smoothly he found himself looking for a trap, for any slip that could cause him to fall.<p>

He shook himself. The uneasiness was probably nothing more than a byproduct of his having spent nearly a decade under pursuit. Whether it was L, Near, Mello, or the distant bumbling steps of the NPA, he had spent almost six years of his life dogged and in hiding. But he would soon be completely unfettered. He would have to make sure that his mother and sister were as far removed from him as possible. There were several possibilities to bring that about; on the whole he thought the easiest would be convincing them to quietly move out of the city without telling anyone where they were going. It would take time, but it would make it much easier for him to move freely and set his plans in motion.

Rising gracefully, he crossed to the window of the apartment and looked out over the blazing lights of the city. In that space of a few square miles there was so much life and energy and so many petty little plans with so many tiny people. Many millions of people, and a mere handful of them would go on to make an impression on people. Still fewer would rise to be noted in the city, and an even tinier percentage would go on to be remembered in history. He had already made his mark on civilization for some time to come, but no one knew yet that he, Light Yagami, had made that mark.

He smiled faintly. Now that he thought about it, some people had known it, and all of them had died. All save for two- Mikami, the young man who was like a useful and effective tool that one kept as long as possible and reluctantly threw away when it had worn itself out. The other had known his secret- and had given up her knowledge at his command.

After a while he turned away and made his way to the bedroom they both shared, conscious of an unsettling melancholy coming over him. He crossed to his dresser and took off his jacket, delaying over the process as long as humanly possible before turning around to stare at the wide double bed and its one occupant.

Misa Amane was sound asleep, her breathing heavy and slow. Her doll-like face looked very different, Light realized, now that she was not wearing makeup. The dainty chin, full lips, and long eyelashes were somehow older and wearier in sleep. She no longer looked like the bright and beautiful actress whose face had graced so many film posters and magazine covers. Instead she looked startlingly real, with faint marks of wear and a tugging at the corners of her beautiful mouth that gave her a look of unexpected sorrow. Light looked at her for a moment. He could suddenly believe that this woman had seen her family killed before her eyes, and that she would want nothing in the world other than to punish evildoers. Though he had always known this about Misa, her ideals had always been buried beneath her smile. When she was asleep, they seemed much more apparent in her appearance- childlike, yet worn, innocent, yet jaded, sincere, yet entirely false.

He sighed very faintly and sat down at the foot of the bed. She had claimed to have fallen in love with him the instant she had seen him. He had doubted that claim at first, but the more he had worked with her in killing off criminals, the more he had realized that she genuinely did care for him, even if her methods of showing affection had been strange. For all her irritating habits, she had had a single-minded determination in all her dealings with him. He allowed himself a smile. She had acted on her own to expose criminals, had been able to flush him out despite all his precautions, and had been able to withstand fifty days of confinement for him when she had come under suspicion. And at his command, she had been willing to wipe her own mind of the Death Note by giving up ownership of it at his request. She had had both courage and will, and he had not appreciated that until he had had to make do with Takada, a much more difficult and weaker tool.

Misa had loved him for knowing he was Kira and had done so unconditionally. She had been willing to die for him, and even when she had not known of his identity, she had still cared enough to endure confinement in police headquarters for him. Mikami worshiped him, but that was a more distant affection, and though it was the only one Light felt he desired, he knew that no one else had cared for him the way Misa had. No one ever would again.

His eyes fell on the dainty little clock that was beside the bed. The words he had written in the Death Note earlier that day came to mind: _Misa Amane dies_ _peacefully in her sleep February 15__th__ at 2 am of a drug overdose._

The time was 1:47.

He wondered if he should wake her one last time, but at this point it would be impossible, and there was nothing he could think to say to her. It made no sense to lie and tell her he loved her moments before she died at his hand. But he could not deny that it felt strange to know that she would be lost to the world in a matter of minutes. Though she had been nothing more than a tool, she had been a useful one, one that had saved him on more occasions than he could count. And though he did not put his feelings in words, there was a stirring of some sort in his heart- perhaps of anticipated loneliness that someone who had been with him for so long would have no more claim on him. He could not define it and made no further attempt to do so. She would be gone in a few moments anyway; it should not matter to him.

Nonetheless he found himself holding her limp hand in his as the clock ticked on.

When she breathed her last, it was a quiet sound, a faint sigh that came like a shout on the silent room. Light checked her pulse with sure hands before standing and heading back into the room where the computer monitor was dim from his lack of activity. He flicked it into action again and heard the dry rattle of Ryuk clearing his throat. "Hey, Light- you aren't planning to get into bed and sleep beside her now that she's dead, are you?"

Light felt a violent distaste for the god of death that surprised him in its strength. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to be doing work for another half an hour, go back in, discover she's not breathing, and call an ambulance."

"Ah. Clever." Ryuk was silent for a moment as Light continued pounding away at his computer before coughing again. "So how does this fit into the plan, then?"

"I need to rid myself of all traces to the past. She was a very dangerous one. The odds that she would find the notebook were impossibly low, but I couldn't run the risk of her regaining her memories."

"Are you sure that would have been a bad thing? She was pretty useful to you as I recall- you'd never have gotten rid of L if Rem hadn't been willing to take the bullet for Misa, and that situation wouldn't have come up if she hadn't been willing to take the bullet for you."

"She was too much of a liability. Too much in the public eye. If one person realized that her mysterious boyfriend- for whose sake she wouldn't even kiss on screen- was connected to the Kira investigation, everything I've done could have been put in jeopardy. It only takes one reasonably intelligent person to put me at risk. Misa exposed me to too many eyes."

"Are you going to miss her?"

"It'll be quieter without her around."

Ryuk laughed and flitted over to hover by the window. "Now that she's gone, what are you going to do?"

"Keep working, what else? It's only now that I'm actually able to start making the world move at my command."

"You haven't already?"

"I've been running from law enforcement for the past six years," Light said with a faint smile. "I haven't as much time as I would like to pay attention to the world. But in a way, that's not a bad thing. I've had practice gauging people and their reactions and how I can best manipulate them. Now I have the chance to apply all that I've learned on a larger scale."

Ryuk's skeletal grin stretched even wider. "That should be interesting to see."

"You said it yourself so long ago. Humans are interesting."

"Oh, yeah? Then why do you think so poorly of most of them?"

Light shrugged. "I look down on them the same way you do, I think. They're mostly powerless and mostly foolish, because so many of them don't bother to think. But they can surprise you occasionally. Such as Misa." He was quiet for a moment. "When I first met Misa, I don't think I ever would have expected her to have a tenth of the mind she did."

The Shinigami chuckled. "You never thought that when she was alive and you know it."

"Well now she isn't. And people can be surprising. Misa may have been annoying, but she did teach me a very valuable lesson that I haven't forgotten since- underestimating someone is the most dangerous thing you can do."

"Really? I don't think you ever said anything good about your opponents since you faced L."

"If any of them had anything notable, I would have done otherwise." Light turned back to the computer and began to pound away at the keys, very much aware of Ryuk's bulging eyes focused on him.

Calling in the paramedics was easy enough. There was no cause for alarm, no need to fear. No one looked at him suspiciously and none of the police made any insinuations about Light being connected to her death. She was an actress and model, after all. Light could practically read their thoughts as he explained the details to them and they searched her apartment to find the stashes of illegal substances Misa had hidden. Just another celebrity disaster, he could imagine them thinking. Just another star gone off the rails. Touching, as far as she goes, but not surprising. Not unusual. He knew from the moment they found the drugs she had used that he would be safe from the police.

A cold bright sun had risen when he finally called his mother to tell her that Misa had died. When he broke the news to her, she was silent for several seconds before she finally whispered, "I don't know what to say, Light. I have to admit, you and she…" Her voice cracked and trailed off. After a few ragged breaths, she went on, "Another death. And that child was so young. I can't believe it."

"I know, Mom. It's hard for me to get my head around it too."

"Do they know what killed her?"

"They think it was an accidental overdose. She had a lot of drugs hidden." He sighed and glanced around the hall. The last of the medics had gone, but there were still a few straggling tenants who had come out into the hall to see why the police had come. "I can't believe it," he said, allowing his voice to crack. "If I'd been home more- if I'd been able to see her more often, it might not have to come to this. I should have noticed something."

His mother sighed. "Don't blame yourself, Light. It was an accident; there was no way you could have known she was in trouble."

"If I'd noticed sooner- if I'd stopped working just an hour or so earlier, I might have been able to get help in time." He shut his eyes and let himself slump against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the old woman who lived down the hall staring sympathetically in his direction, while the other onlookers had quickly turned away.

"You can't think that way, Light," his mother said softly. "Do you know how often I thought that same way after Sayu was kidnapped? It won't help. It'll only make things worse. I know Misa loved you, Light. She would want you to be happy. Not to blame yourself."

"She would," Light said with a very thin smile. "You're right."

"Do you want to stop by today? We could talk about arrangements for her, since I know she doesn't have any close family."

Light ignored her pleading tone. "I can't, Mom. I'm going to have to talk to the people who came and then go and try and get in contact with her manager. It's going to be a busy day."

"I see." Her voice had taken on an edge and Light suppressed a sigh with difficulty.

"I'll come and see you tomorrow, all right?" he said as softly as possible. "There's actually something I need to talk to you about, and I don't want it to wait for longer than necessary. Will that be all right?"

"Yes, of course. Is it to do with Misa?"

"Well… yes, I suppose you could say it does. I'll see you tomorrow."

"All right, Light. I love you."

He hung up the phone and went back into the apartment, unable to hide the smile spreading on his face. If everything went as planned, he would be truly unfettered very soon.

Behind him came the flap of Ryuk's wings. "Hey, Light? What was that about? Are you going to kill her too? Because that…" The shingami began to cackle humorlessly. "That'd be a little cold even for you, I think."

"Use your head, Ryuk. If everyone close to me starts dying mysteriously, someone with less brain power than Matsuda would be able to figure out something was wrong. I have to move slowly, and there's no need for me to kill them. They won't be a threat as long as I can keep them at a distance."

"Is that so? And how are you going to do that?"

"Play off my mother's fears," Light said coolly. "Ever since my father died, she's been a shadow that quakes at the slightest threat. I've seen her tremble every time the phone rings, and I know it's because subconsciously she's expecting it to bring bad news. She looks at everything now with the expectancy that it will attack her. I plan to make use of that."

"Interesting." Ryuk flopped on the sofa with one arm dangling over the edge. "And how will having her and your sister at a distance help you as Kira?"

"If they're around, I'm going to have to account for myself. And after everything that's happened, she won't be satisfied with the minimum contact. She'll want to see me all the time- unless I can convince her that that's a bad idea."

"You aren't going to tell her who you are, are you?"

Light laughed aloud. "Reveal that to my mother that Kira's her son? That would give her a heart attack without my help. No, Ryuk, I just need to convince her that Kira is a present threat… a threat to me that I don't want her and Sayu being exposed to. I'll just convince her that I have to go into hiding. And I'll remain there until I'm ready to announce myself for who I truly am."


	5. Chapter 5

**Not much to say here- still don't own Death Note.**

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><p>Linda had spent hours poring over the folders and pictures, scanning the pages of print until her head ached and the text appeared to be swimming in front of her eyes. At last she shook herself and got up to make herself another pot of coffee. She had a feeling that the most powerful espresso known to man would do nothing to improve her brain at this hour, and the instant coffee powder she was using was anything but powerful. But it was the only thing she had. She heaped spoonfuls of the mix into her stained mug, fighting down a yawn. Her brain was near breaking point; the information she had gained from the envelope was a jumble of thoughts that sprang back and forth in her mind.<p>

Kira had a name: Light Yagami. And he was no deity or magician- he was a boy who stumbled upon a notebook that had once belonged to a god of death. It was that notebook that gave him the power to kill people, if he wrote their names and kept their face in mind.

Water began to bubble against the sides of the small electric kettle. Light Yagami was Kira. Teru Mikami was his assistant; Light's fiancée Misa Amane had had Kira's powers at some point.

She wondered what Roger would say if she told him the truth behind how Kira was killing. And that thought was enough to make her head ache and her stomach turn over. Light had won. He had defeated three of the most intelligent people she had ever known, and had done so in a way that eliminated all possible opposition and left himself completely unscathed. She had no idea if anyone else in the Japanese police knew or guessed Light's identity, but she was sure that even if they guessed, they would do nothing to stop him. And if that was the case, she could hardly blame them. He was altering world history, warping it around himself, and seemingly without obstacle. His killing of the heads of world religion showed that he was truly intent on dominating the world with both power and mind.

Feeling sick, she poured the hot water into the mug. There was no other way to look at it; this man had won and there was nothing she could do to change that. She should have let Roger burn the file and let the world and Kira take their course. After all, he was human. He had to die at some point, surely. She was in no danger from him; she had commented no crime.

She moved back to the tiny space she jokingly referred to as 'the parlor' and sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping her coffee slowly. L had died, Near had lost, Mello and Matt were gone. There was no point in the knowledge she held. In her hands it was utterly useless. Kira had won, and she, a young woman barely old enough to have her own flat, knew everything he had done and could do nothing about it.

With a childlike air she rubbed her eyes. She found herself wanting to cry for some reason she could not fathom. It was less to do with the deaths than the sensation of being completely lost. Absently she began to turn the papers over again, picking up loose pages at random and reading a few lines into them before throwing them down and grabbing a different set. Her eyes fell on L's name, and she found her heart sinking as she remembered the legend he had been in the orphanage. Everyone there had heard of him, everyone there had wanted to be that famous detective. Then he had been killed and his place usurped by Kira. He had not even received an obituary.

"Why?" she found herself murmuring. "Why did all of this have to happen?" She gulped down a mouthful of the bitter coffee.

Jumping to her feet she began to pace back and forth, talking aloud all the while. She had never been much of a planner, and she was still not entirely sure how to best organize her thoughts other than articulating them. "Why would this happen? What point is there in doing all this? Why would a kid decide to take over the world in that way? It doesn't make any sense. Why would Mello kidnap that woman, that Takada? Near mentioned in the file something about how he theorized that that was to make Mikami's notebook accessible, but it must not have worked, since they all died. Why is this me? Why am I the one thinking about this? I'm an artist, I was never in the running to be the great detective! Why the bloody hell am I the one looking at this now? Why didn't I just listen to Roger?" She dropped on her ragged sofa and buried her head in her hands.

Then she straightened up. "Why did Near bother to send that file at all?" she murmured to herself. "It's complete, yes. If Kira knew about it, he'd be in one hell of a fit. But it doesn't help. There's no evidence. So why did Near bother to send the file? Why would he think this information is worth passing on? He never did something without wanting some kind of outcome." She scrabbled among the scattered papers for the letter. "He says himself it's possible we might not want to pursue this. So- I guess…"

Her voice trailed off and she lowered the paper. Now she was beginning to cry in earnest. "It was a last-ditch effort," she whispered. "Basically Roger's the last stand, and he's going to burn this as soon as I return it. Near must have badly wanted to make sure someone knew this. He must have wanted to make sure that there was still somebody who knew what Kira really was."

"If I were L, I'd have a brilliant plan hatching. I'd trot out some amazing deduction," she whispered after a moment. "And then I'd take the next move in the game, and wait for Kira to make his. But I'm not L. I'm just Linda. And I have no idea what to do."

She closed her eyes and lay down on her stomach, feeling herself hovering between sleeping and waking. She remembered vividly the one time she had seen L, after the event that had rocked the orphanage so many years ago, when one of the residents had died and another had run off. She had been a very small child, but she could remember seeing a pale young man with a slouching walk, dark-ringed eyes, and bony hands come out of Roger's office. She had not found out until much later that that was L, the man to whom they all looked as the template for their future. Now she was remembering the many talks she'd had with different orphans, the games she'd played, the one time she'd had the misfortune to play against Mello in football, and the many times she'd tried to talk to Near, who'd always been left alone. And underneath all her memories was the dark thread of Kira and his victory.

Idly her fingers found their way to a pencil and paper, with which she began to trace a rough outline. The neck and general shape of the head were easy; the specific features she was drawing less so. After she had the basic shape in place, she slowed and lowered her pencil. The shadow of L's face was there, fleshed out by her imagination and the faint memory of the detective she had seen so long ago.

She shut her eyes. Her head was beginning to ache again, and the caffeine was already beginning to wear off. Shoving the sketch aside, she folded her arms and lowered her head onto them, just to rest for a few minutes and give her brain time to clear.

Unsurprisingly, those few minutes were more than enough time for her to fall asleep. She was sore and stiff when she woke to bright sunlight streaming in the window. It was early afternoon, a few hours till her first art class that day. Her neck was stiff and a foul taste was in her mouth. The floor of the entire apartment was littered in papers which she had to kick aside to reach the bathroom. Her brain felt slow and numb, and not even the hot shower she took could galvanize her jumbled thoughts.

After dressing she sat down at her desk again, this time to stare at the paper-covered floor. She had to return the file to Roger today. And once she did that, he was going to get rid of it for good. Up till now she had done nothing to make Kira come after her, done nothing to warrant his attention. If she decided to use the information she had, she would be setting herself against a very intelligent and completely cold-blooded mind. If she decided to set herself against Light, she would never be able to back out of that decision. Once committed, she would have to see it through to the end or be killed. As soon as Kira realized that someone knew his secrets, he would go after her to destroy her, annihilate her and every loose end she represented.

Her hands shook. She did not want to decide. She wanted to be left alone, she wanted someone to step in and take this knowledge away. Once she made the choice to go against Kira, she could not go back. She had to know who she was going up against, and she had to be fully aware of every single one of his flaws and potential weaknesses. She was painfully aware that he did not have many. There were not many weaknesses that could harm a man armed with a genius brain and a killing notebook. There was nothing she could latch onto, nothing to exploit.

But she could frighten him, give him pause. If she let him know that someone in the world knew his secret, she might be able to put his killing spree to a halt, at least for a while.

Until he tracked her down and killed her himself.

She grabbed all the papers and jammed them haphazardly in the file folder. Her night art classes at the youth center were in an hour now and she had to make a decision soon. Roger was going to ask her about the file if she stopped by to see him that day like she was supposed to. With a groan, she shook out her damp hair. Until she figured out what to do with the information she had, she was going to have to hold onto the file. It would be easy enough to say she had forgotten she was supposed to bring it back today; that was an excuse he would certainly believe. Hurriedly she dressed in a more professional outfit and dashed off into the frosty February air to her art class.

She passed through the crowds haphazardly, occasionally bumping into people or nearly stepping out into traffic. Her mind was racing. Frightening Light, letting him know that someone knew his secret seemed like a good way to pause him in his killing, but he would not take such a reminder without taking action. And she could think of no way to give him pause without giving herself away almost instantly.

The classes she taught passed by in a blur and she hoped that her inner distraction had not manifested itself too openly in her teaching. The more the night dragged on, the more she felt that she should do nothing. She was no match for Kira in either wits or resources; no matter how she looked at it, she was simply not meant to try and stop him.

After the classes she made her way through the dark London streets, unsure whether she was heading back to Wammy's or to her own apartment. As she passed one of the sidestreets, she saw a boy clad in a sweatshirt and baggy jeans. He had a can of spray paint in his hand and kept stopping his sweeping strokes to glance around furtively. Linda wondered if it was his first time committing vandalism. She smiled as the boy gave her a very guilty glance, and she stopped walking. "You need some help there?" she called softly. There was no one close by, but there was no point in taking chances.

The boy immediately thrust the paint can behind his back, dropped it in the snow, and nearly fell over on his backside trying to get hold of it again. Linda grinned and took a step into the alley to see what he was attempting to sketch out on the wall. It was some kind of design or insignia, but all the lines were blurred and fuzzy. "You know, you can get a better look if you hold the can closer to the wall. Here, let me show you." She held out a hand imperatively, and the boy gave her the spray can reluctantly. Linda quickly found a bare patch of wall and traced two sharp upright outlines topped by a series of dark cloudy blurs. "There," she said. "Not the best, but there you go. A pretty passable tree. What were you trying to spell out on the wall there?"

The number of curses that came from the boy's mumbling lips made Linda roll her eyes. "Really, that's what you're going to put up?" she said with a sigh. "Kid, if you're going to vandalize a wall, make it something worth doing, all right? Now go on, get out of here. Come back when you've got a decent idea." She grabbed the spray can. "And I'll take charge of that, all right? Hurry up, get somewhere warm- and don't you curse at me or I'll get the p.c.s here faster than you can turn around."

The boy left, not without some complaining, and Linda sighed. She could relate to wanting to tear down the structure of things, but in the end that did no one any good. And as things stood, there was enough tearing down going on in the world already.

She made her way back to the main street and bit back a mild curse as more snow began to fall from the sky. Roger was just going to have to wait till tomorrow to get the precious file that still hung heavy in her purse; she was not going out of her way to Wammy's tonight.

Just the thought of that file was enough to make her downcast again. She sighed. Absently she began to turn over the can of spray paint in her hand. She had less experience with paint than she did with pencil and paper, but she had always admired people who could make murals- who could take a large blank wall that had windows and cracks and somehow visualize something lovely. Making it would be even harder, she knew; painting such an image would require knowing how to transform small sections of a wall into a greater whole.

She flipped the can over in her hand. Another plan was starting to take shape, almost against her will. A shadowy one, but it was there. Her eyes grew sharp and intent. A few pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place, as Near might have said. It was only after Near, Mello, and the task force had fallen that Light and Mikami had gone on to kill the religious leaders. Yet all the names and faces they had struck down could have been obtained at any time. Yet they had not made their move on the worldwide stage until it was absolutely certain that they were no longer being pursued. They were cautious, and she might be able to make use of that in a way that could delay their world takeover without immediately bringing them down on her neck. It would take some thought and careful planning on her part, but the vague notions were growing clearer with every passing second.

"That would scare him," she murmured as the last stages of her idea solidified. "Just put the fear of God in him a bit." Her lips twisted in a grim smile. "And if It works, he'll stop. He'll put all his energy into finding out how much this person knows."

The more she thought about her plan, the more she began to like it. It would keep her anonymous, and if she could pull it off, it would certainly send more than a few volts of shock through Kira. Hurriedly she stopped at a nearby bank to check the money in her account. It was hardly a luxurious number, but she had enough to spare for the project she had in mind- at least she hoped she had enough. But she was less worried about the money than she was about the phone call she would have to make when she reached her apartment.

It went every bit as badly as she had feared it would.

"You're telling me you want to use the back football field at night and you won't tell me what you want to use it for?"

"It's not for any kind of wild bohemian orgy, I can tell you that."

"That's comforting to hear; I'd have to object on the moral grounds of being your former caregiver. So what is it then? A forgery operation?"

"You wound me," Linda said drily. "And no- you could think of it as a resistance operation." Immediately she clamped her lips shut and stifled a groan.

"A resistance operation?" Roger said in a low, furious voice. "Linda, what are you planning?"

"Nothing! Okay- maybe something. It's just something I want to try, Roger, it doesn't involve anyone but me. I just need your help this one time. That's all."

"Help to do what?"

She took a deep breath. "It's just me involved right now and I want to keep it that way."

"You still have that file on Kira, don't you?"

Her silence was more than enough answer and Roger sighed heavily. "That was sent to me."

"And you let me see it." Her voice shook a little. "It's just that- Roger, you know Kira shouldn't-"

"I know what you're going to say. And I thought you had more sense than that, Linda."

She could feel his anger practically vibrating through the phone lines, and felt her ire rising. "You don't even know what I'm going to do, and I'm not about to tell you. I was hoping to use the football field so I could work there without being arrested for trespassing somewhere else, but I'll run that risk if I have to. And again, I haven't said why."

"It's not as though you need to," he grumbled.

"Oh? Then tell me, what do you think I'm planning?"

"Some kind of statement against Kira that'll make him sit up and take notice. And if I know you, it'll be a drawing or graffiti of some sort."

"Graffiti isn't art," she snapped, a little unnerved that he had guessed so accurately. "At least to me it isn't."

"You thought differently when you were younger as I recall."

"Stenciling is not graffiti, Roger; we've had this argument before," she said lightly.

"Yes, when you decorated your room with pine tree outlines."

"That was an improvement and you know it!" Her voice trembled as it sank in how long ago that conversation had taken place. That had been childhood; this was something else entirely.

There was a very long pause.

At last Linda took a deep breath. "Roger, will you please let me use the football field? Just this once, then I won't bother you with it again, I promise."

Roger was silent for a moment. Then his weary voice came through the wire. "When do you need it?"

She relaxed slightly. "Next week. I think I'll need it only one night, but it might be two. Can it be…" she rapidly made some mental calculations. "On Tuesday of next week, and possibly Wednesday?"

"I'll see to that." His voice was anything but gracious.

"Okay. Thanks, Roger."


	6. Chapter 6

**I don't own Death Note**. **And just as fair warning, I'm not sure how soon my next update will be- I have a rather busy week coming up. I'm hoping there won't be too much of a delay, but I can't guarantee anything.**

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><p>When Light received Mikami's first phone call, he was at Misa's funeral and had had his cell phone switched off. The second call came when he was at the reception afterwards, politely listening to the condolences of Misa's manager and various people in the modeling business who had been forced to attend her funeral out of respect. When a third phone call illuminated his phone, Light excused himself politely to hear Mikami ask quickly if they could meet, as there was something Light had to see immediately. After arranging to meet at the café where they had held their first conference, Light had turned back to the guests, inwardly seething. He had to find a way to leave the place without attracting too much attention. Touching his mother's shoulder, he asked her in a muffled voice if they could leave. Immediately she was guiding him away from the crowds and out the door. "Are you all right?" she whispered. "Oh Light, I know how hard this is."<p>

"None of those people knew her," Light whispered fiercely. It was a poor excuse for his distaste, but at the moment, it was the only one he could think of. "None of them knew her and now that she's dead, they're all in there fawning over her like she was their dearest friend. Half of them were using her for her talents anyway."

He heard Ryuk cackle loudly above his head. Sachiko sighed. "I know what you mean," she said. "Believe me, Light, I know."

"I don't want to face it. Not now." He straightened up, not looking at his mother. "I think I need to be alone, at least for now. Would it be all right if we left now? I'll drive you back home."

As soon as he had deposited Sachiko back at the house, Ryuk began to laugh again. "You're slipping, Light. That has to be one of the lamest excuses I've heard yet for getting out of something. L would have seen through that in a heartbeat."

"Don't mention him," Light snapped. "L's dead. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway- suspicious behavior isn't proof." He began to chuckle softly, a low laugh that contrasted sharply with Ryuk's grating cackle. "He found that too late, if you remember."

The Shinigami made no answer. Light parked his car a few blocks away from the café and made his way through the people as quickly as he could. He knew the lawyer would not ask to meet him unless it was something urgent; normally the young man would wait on orders from his god. He almost found himself hoping that the lawyer had called him out on a false alarm. The implications of an incident pressing enough for Mikami to call him in the middle of a funeral were much worse than those of his assistant being prone to worry.

The café was crowded, which was a relief- it meant that the two of them would be less noticeable in their conference. Mikami was sitting at a booth in a corner with a laptop in front of him. He was watching the screen intently, his brow furrowed.

Light strode up to the table and sat down. "What are you doing with that?" he asked sharply, causing Mikami to give a slight start. "You know that work is better done in an environment with less distraction."

He laid a careful emphasis on the last word, and Mikami bowed his head. "I know, and I am sorry. But I needed your advice- I need your counsel. I only heard of the London incident at my lunch hour, and as far as I can determine, it took place several hours ago."

"What are you talking about? What do you mean, the London incident?"

Mikami looked him in the eye. "To put it in our usual terms- we have some competition we failed to account for in that sector." He twisted the laptop around to reveal a broadcast video for a United Kingdom news channel. Light donned a pair of headphones Mikami gave him and began to play the video, apprehension gnawing at his stomach. It began normally enough, with a rather pretty newscaster talking about London traffic and various pile-ups and delays. Light was on the verge of excoriating Mikami for bringing him here and exposing them for nothing when the woman cleared her throat. "_Inside the city, there are heavy delays at Tower Bridge Road while city workers remove a banner that was hung from the top pedestrian walkway of Tower Bridge. It's still not known who the person on the banner is, or why the banner was hung there. One thing is certain, though- the banner was intended as a message." _The screen cut to an image of a bridge with two turrets and a crossbeam. A large canvas fluttered down from that crossbeam. Light squinted at it. Then the camera zoomed in on the canvas, and he recoiled.

L's face was sketched on the canvas. It was no more than a rough outline, with the hair depicted as many dark strokes that overshadowed the sharp face and large eyes. The ink was distorted and rough, but there was no mistaking it; it was the face of his former adversary. There were letters underneath the canvas, but he could not make them out.

But there was no need; the news anchor had gone without pause. "_The message underneath the image reads 'Kira, this is L.' We're not sure if this is some kind of code or a joke. Police say their investigation could be easier if they knew who the face on the banner is. There were no witnesses of the actual rigging of the canvas, though there are reports of an unidentified person leaving the bridge around two or three o'clock this morning. Any information on the identity of the vandal should be given to police._" She listed a phone number and went on to talk about an accident that had taken place on some highway outside the city.

Light closed the laptop and realized his hands were shaking. He tried to think what to say that would not include screaming his anger and slamming his fists into the table. Mikami looked braced for such an outburst, but it was the sight of a young waitress passing with a tray of mugs that reminded Light to keep his temper in check. Drawing attention to himself in such a way would be beneath his dignity, since only Mikami would be able to recognize his rage as the wrath of God. He drew several deep breaths before turning the laptop back towards Mikami. "Thank you for showing this to me," he said between gritted teeth. "Now listen. This person is very obviously trying to gain our attention, so don't give them the satisfaction of knowing that they've done so. I'm going to try establish who this person is, and will need you to increase your workload with that," he nodded to the notebook, "to avoid a decrease in production. Can you do that- take some of my work for a while?"

"I can do whatever it is you need of me."

"Then do what I have asked you and do not, under any circumstances, take any major steps until I can assess this situation and give you new directions. As soon as I've determined the best course of action, I'll call you and give instructions."

Mikami lowered his head in what was almost a bow, and Light rose and left without looking back. He drove back to his apartment in a blind rage, grinding his teeth and clenching the steering wheel so tightly he could feel his fingers turning numb. Not since a young man had told him "I am L" several years ago had he been so angry. He wanted to lash out, break something, or hit someone, preferably the person who had shattered his security and thrown this new obstacle into his path. L had existed only behind a computer screen and a man with a long high-collared coat. Until Kira had appeared, he had had no face. Everyone who had known that face was dead. There had been no pictures, no trace of him anywhere- Light knew because he had tried desperately to obtain information about L and had never succeeded.

Now that elusive face had been hung up for the world to see. With a mocking challenge to him, to the God of the New World, written beneath it.

He made it back to his apartment and slammed the door so hard the walls rattled. Ryuk passed through without difficulty as he always did, and watched him with gleaming eyes and his endless grin. Light threw himself into a chair and slammed a fist hard onto the wooden surface of the coffee tables. "How dare they," he whispered at last. "How _dare_ they challenge me, telling me that's L! How does anyone dare remind me of him- how do they even know him? I'll kill them, whoever they are- they deserve to die for even trying to stop me!"

Ryuk's wings rustled as he moved towards the desk. "You don't think it's possible that was something of effort to help?"

"Idiot," Light said bitterly. "The face of the person who died five years ago, who nobody should know about?" He almost shouted the last words. "There's no help in that. That's a direct challenge, and I'm going to hunt down the person who made that challenge and make sure they regret it. Then I'll kill them."

"And how are you going to do that?"

That brought Light up short for a moment. He leaned forward on the desk, thinking hard. The banner had appeared in London, so it stood to reason that a local, or at least someone who lived near that area, had rigged it. So whoever this person was, they lived in England, or at least were currently staying there.

Dropping into his chair, he booted up the computer and found the video of the broadcast again. As soon as a clear image of the banner was in place, he paused the broadcast and studied it closely. Though the video quality was less than perfect, he could see that the banner was crudely made and poorly rigged. At the time of the camera shot it was crooked; the left corner looked on the verge of being torn away from the rope that held it in place. The picture was shoddy, painted onto the canvas and cracking some places, yet was clearly meant to be a presentation of L- the wild hair and shadowed eyes combined with the demand that Kira remember was evidence of that. But that took him back to the original problem of who could have known L's face. From the amateur nature of this challenge, Light felt he was safe in assuming that this person- or persons- had no official resources or backing. If they had, they would have made a direct approach to law enforcement. They had to be some kind of fringe movement- people who fancied themselves to be the resistance and the last stand against him. Such a stance was characteristic of people who were outraged by the fact that Kira was gaining popular acceptance with every passing day. Such a clumsy challenge was something that would appeal to such people.

Yet such people should never have had knowledge of the true L. Such people could not have known. Yet this banner indicated otherwise. Such knowledge could destroy him if it was in the wrong hands. He had to find out who else could have known about L.

As he thought, Light suddenly sat upright and drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. L's right-hand man Watari had been exposed at the time of his death as Quillish Wammy, an English inventor and founder of charities. One of those charities had been Wammy's House- an orphanage for exceptionally gifted children. And both Near and Mello had lived there. If there was someone else- someone who had perhaps been behind those two to step forward as L- then that person might have known L. And such a person could conceivably desire to go after an opponent such as himself.

Yet he could not fathom how such an amateurish attempt would come from someone who had been in line to be L's successor. To create a public banner was crude, clumsy, and rather childish. It did nothing save to alert Light to the fact that there was someone who knew L and who wished to challenge Kira. He stared at the banner thoughtfully. "So who are you?" he said at last. "Are you just an idiot with delusions of justice, or do you actually have a point with this clumsy and rather pointless exercise? Why this? A banner of L? Stringing it in a public place can only mean you wanted it to come to the attention of the national media. You wanted Kira to find out about this. But why? What good does it do you?"

He made note of the station that had made the initial broadcast and went to their website to see if there had been any updates to the story or any arrests. To his surprise there was another video labeled "Update to Tower Bridge Banner." It began with the same anchor, who proclaimed cheerfully, "Right now, our James Masters has an update for us on the banner that was hung on the bridge this morning. Jim?"

The video cut to a young man standing beneath one of the towers of the bridge with a microphone in his hand and a self-important expression on his face. "I've been making some phone calls to police and came across something interesting. Inspector Nancy Delaney, who has kept track of all Kira-related offenses in London since 2008, pointed me to a broadcast that was made some years ago in Japan in which a man claimed to be a detective named L who could mobilize the world's police. At the end of the broadcast, this L challenged Kira to kill him, and concluded that the alleged killer could not do so without seeing his face. It seems then, that this banner is an effort to indicate to Kira that the face on the banner was the face of the detective who has threatened to bring him down. This incident is only the latest in a long list of acts of vandalism that have plagued the London area ever since the idea of Kira first made its way into popular culture, and Nancy stressed that this would probably not be the last…"

As soon as Light had ascertained that there were no leads on the identity of the person who had rigged the banner, he stopped the video and leaned back, wondering if it was possible that this was all this banner was- a misplaced attempt to help Kira in his quest for justice. It would be galling if Ryuk, of all people, had turned out to have been right and he himself wrong.

He did some checking into the other incidents to which the broadcast had referred and found them somewhat inconsistent with the banner. There were many instances of graffiti and one case where posters of a woman had been plastered all over various buildings within a twenty-block radius. The graffiti cases generally had been dismissed as people with personal grudges trying to get Kira to dispose of their enemies, and in the instance of the posters, the perpetrator had been caught. Incidentally the police had also brought charges against the woman featured in the poster, who was discovered to have murdered her two children and buried them in her backyard. Yet none of the incidents seemed to have any sort of connecting link or common thread. There was no evidence of a coordinated effort. Though it was remotely possible that this banner was part of a move to help Kira, Light could not fathom how a rogue supporter could have obtained knowledge of L's face and known that face to be the great detective. It was much more likely that someone affiliated with Watari's charity would have that knowledge.

Yet he still found it hard to believe that a potential successor to L would do something so childish. There had to be a point to the banner. He was just not sure what it was.

He drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking hard over everything he had done from the moment he had taken up the persona of justice. It was remotely possible that this banner was a misguided attempt to help him. But if that had been the case, he felt that someone who could have found the true L's face through sheer research would have known that L had died some years ago. The only time L had exposed his face had been when he began working with the NPA, so the person would have had to have had a resource there. And a resource who knew that much would have known that he, Light Yagami, had assumed the mantle of the nameless detective. But there was no one left alive who could have tipped off such a person. Unless one of the task force had been leaking information. When Near had come on the scene, Light had been well aware that there were members of his crew who had begun to realize the truth. Yet he doubted very much that any of them would have given such confidential information to an unofficial source, and whoever had rigged this canvas was clearly in no position of authority.

His thoughts were getting out of hand now. Sighing, Light straightened up and began to carefully set all he knew about this new development in order. This person, whoever he or she might be, knew who L had been and had felt compelled to let Kira know that. The only way the person could have known about L would have been through the broadcast that had taken place with Lind L. Tailor almost six years ago. This was where his train of thought began to derail again. If this was an effort to help Kira, it was hard to see how that help had come so late. It was hard to see how anyone could have knowledge of L's face and not know the true L was dead.

"The true L," Light whispered suddenly. He sat bolt-upright in his chair, his mind racing. "The true L, that's the key. Why point out that that face is L in such a way? It was an obvious effort to get my attention, but not to help me. The only person for whom this face has any significance is the current L- because there's only one reason to point out that this L is the real one. And that's to expose the current L- myself- as false. And if I'm false, then it only takes a few questions of: why take up that position? Who is this person designated the real L and why is there another? People on the Japanese police force know why, but what if there were others who knew the real L personally? We only ever had his word for it that it was the first time he had shown his face. What if he was lying about that as well, as insurance policy in case I do the very thing I did- take over his name?"

A clap of thunder shook the apartment building and Light jumped involuntarily. Rain began to hammer hard against the windows and he turned for a moment to stare out at the now-drenched buildings. Lightning illuminated every sharp line and curved cloud for a brief second before dying away to a rumble of thunder. Light watched the storm for a moment, feeling himself grow calmer as the weather grew worse. "All right, then," he said at last. "Whoever you are, you're smarter than I gave you credit for initially. Let's see how well you do when I begin my own hunt for you. I already have a few ideas about your origins- it won't take me long to turn those ideas into a trail that leads right to your face and your name."

Turning over a pencil in his hand, he mentally re-traced everything he knew about L and how it might have led to this act of defiance in London. The young man had been in England at some point in his life- he knew that from the conversation he had had with L during their tennis match. And he knew that Watari, L's right-hand man, had been an English inventor who had opened various charities. One of which had been in England- and had produced the two young men had gone on to become Light's rivals in the struggle over his work. Though he knew well enough that that was not proof, it was enough to tell him that he would be wise to look there for his culprit.

As he fiddled with the pencil, a sudden memory flashed back to him of when the task force had collaborated with Near's force over Mello's interference. They had decided to pursue him jointly, and to aid in that pursuit, Near had directed them to someone in Wammy's who could draw them a sketch of Mello. Light began to smile as the memory grew clearer. He had gotten his sketch, and though it was hardly a photograph, the detailed accuracy of the drawing had rivaled that of the best police sketch artists. He remembered asking the artist- without Near's knowledge, of course- about the friends Mello had had and who had known him best. She had had one- one of Near himself, and had mailed it to him without suspicion.

He stood up, his eyes sharp and bright. Linda. That was her name. He had never seen her face, had no idea what her last name was, or even how old she might be. All he knew was that she was an artist who came from Wammy's House and who had known Near and Mello. And though there was no evidence she was involved- there were many suspicious factors. All of which might lead to evidence if he looked in the right places. And if it she turned out to be the one behind the banner, all the better. He had manipulated her once. She had nothing like L's mind or Near's reasoning ability.

A rustling of wings came from behind him. "Hey, Light. You figured out what to do yet?"

He laughed softly. "Yes, I think so. It's time Kira saw a bit more of his world, I think. And England sounds like a good place to visit just now."


	7. Chapter 7

**I haven't vanished! Just some real life issues- and school. They took up time. I think this chapter's decent, but as always, con-crit and feedback does wonders for me and my writing. Enjoy!**

**I don't own Death Note.**

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><p>"Miss Grey, what do you think? It's supposed my big sister- isn't she pretty?"<p>

Linda bent over six-year-old Tess's drawing, which featured a crooked oval with uneven eyes, an impossibly tiny nose, and a wide mouth, all framed by long dark streaks. "She's very pretty, yes," she replied warmly. "Seems like she's got pretty long hair."

"Yeah, she does! She's growing it out to give away and she lets me braid it when she's home and I like to put red ribbons and things in it…"

It was clear the child would go on for some time if allowed, so Linda cleared her throat firmly. "So why don't you add a ribbon for her in the drawing?"

"But I already drew her!"

"You can still add a ribbon. See, watch this." Linda took up a pencil and carefully traced a bow and two sweeping lines to border the thick black streaks. "You color that in, it'll look like a ribbon all right. You think you can do that?"

Tess nodded and reached for a bright red crayon. Linda straightened up and was about to move on to the next table when she felt her cell phone vibrate silently. She flicked it open and shut again, her lips growing taut. It was Roger. If he was trying to get in touch with her, it could only mean her stunt with the banner, even though she had returned the file soon after asking him about using the football field. She doubted he would give her permission of the sort again after the result of her work had come out today.

Sighing, she shoved her phone back into the pocket of her jeans. After the classes ended, she would call him, she decided, and began mentally compiling all the arguments she could use. That was made harder by the fact that she herself was only half-convinced of her plan's viability. At the time she had conceived it, it had seemed like an easy way to give Kira pause. But now that she had seen her own work strung up on Tower Bridge as vandalism, her fears were starting to come back. She tried to imagine what Kira was doing, wondering if he had even heard about the banner yet. Her palms, which were chafed from the ropes and the climbing around several hundred feet above ground, grew sweaty and stung. If she was traced as the person who had who had been behind the rope, she would be in serious trouble. All it would take would be a stray camera identifying her. Then her face would be in the news- and in the police database. Light Yagami was more than capable of obtaining police information; it was how he had begun on his path to killing in the first place.

She realized she was clenching her hands so tightly her nails were digging into her raw hands. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to relax and bent over the next table of small children, all of who were working studiously at their various portraits. Most of them seemed to be enjoying themselves, though there were the few who looked bored and the very few who were growing frustrated because their work "didn't look good." Linda soothed them as best she could and went from child to child, giving an occasional pointer or word of encouragement. Most of them wanted to tell her about the person they were painting. And though she listened as much as possible, she felt disconnected from the faces and the tasks before her. The possibility of sudden chest-crushing pain- and death- was one on which she could not stop dwelling.

As the class ended, she began to delegate the tasks of cleaning up pencils and crayons. Most of the children were fairly willing to help, and all were eager to talk about their drawings. Some of them were so vocal that Linda found herself relieved when their parents arrived to claim them. After odd bits of small talk about the classes, as well as the occasional chatter about the weather, Linda found herself alone in the little art room. She gathered up paper scraps and lost crayons, cleaned a few tables that had pencil scribblings, and for several minutes found ways to avoid her cell phone. But when the screen of her phone lit up again, she knew there was no more avoiding the conversation with her old guardian.

When she picked up, she was braced for an argument, and that was exactly what she got. "What were you thinking when you did that?" Roger asked without preamble. "A banner with L's face? Strung up like that? I thought you said you were going to start out with something small!"

"As I recall, L began with an announcement that left some poor bastard to be killed!" she snapped back. "I think a banner's a bit smaller than outright public killing, yes?"

"Linda, think for a minute! So that banner goes up on the news channels, the police are investigating. Now what?"

"Wait for Kira to respond. There's no way he'll take that lying down." Silently she cursed the hesitation that had slipped into her voice, seemingly of its own accord.

"Very well deduced," Roger said sourly. "And how are you going to know when he'll have made his move?"

Linda shut her eyes for a minute, cursing her lack of sleep and the havoc it was playing on her thought process. Surely she'd had an answer to this question; surely she could not have been such a fool as to plunge into this without having some way of knowing what her adversary would attempt to do. "From what he does with the criminals," she said at last. "If his criminal activity slows down- and it'll have to if he's going to devote his resources to looking for me- it'll show that he got the message and he's hunting. Once I get that, I'll know and I can do something more definite, something to draw him out."

"Linda." The tone of Roger's voice was somewhere between amazement and fury, and she had the feeling that was a very bad combination. "Linda, did you read any of the steps L took while he was hunting for this killer?"

"Yes. He analyzed all the deaths, made the deductions about the time of the killings, and then pinned down who had access to the police information. When Raye Penber died, it was practically confirmed that he was Kira."

"And what happened afterwards? The killings went up, all while the killer in question was getting himself admitted to one of Japan's finest universities, acting like a model student there, and he was going head to head with L by that point. Even when L approached him and monitored him and Misa Amane, it didn't faze him. He was still able to make plans for L's death."

"I know," she almost growled. "I know all that."

"Did you learn nothing from any of it?"

"Well at the rate you're going I'm not sure what I'm meant to take away!"

"You're meant to take away that while Kira was attending a prestigious university, with the world's greatest detective shadowing his every move, he was still able to maintain his killing spree and find a way to arrange for said detective's death! You're meant to take away that the reason you gave just now won't do you any good!"

"Great, so now you're telling me that I've done all that for nothing."

"Yes, I am saying that. And if you keep acting childish about it, I'll burn that file straight out and be done with it."

Linda blinked. "You didn't burn it yet?"

"No, but I will, if you don't acknowledge what I'm telling you. If you keep pulling stunts like that Tower Bridge one, you'll make a mistake."

She grit her teeth, longing to explode with annoyance and lash out in defense of her actions. But that would only prove her childishness, and though she hated to admit it, she had not made a very convincing case for her maturity thus far in the conversation. "I'm trying not to. And hey-" She attempted a laugh, which died quickly in her throat. "At least I didn't make a mistake this time."

"Don't be too proud until you've gotten through at least forty-eight hours without a police call," Roger said dryly.

"Not helping, Roger."

He was silent for a moment. "No, that probably didn't. Linda, why did you decide to do something like that? Because I know you feel someone should go about stopping what's happening. But you sound like you don't think you're the one to do it."

"I don't think I am. But there isn't anyone else, is there?" She swallowed hard and felt her eyes burning. "Dammit, Roger. Now I'm crying with another class in ten minutes."

He started to say something, then stopped with a sigh. "Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"You kidding? I spent it nearly plunging to my death off the top of the walkway. If I hadn't been seeing Dave a while back, I probably would have plunged."

"Who's Dave?"

He sounded so disapproving that she gave a genuine laugh. "An ex who works for city maintenance. When he and I were dating, I asked him if he got to see the view from Tower Bridge and he took me up there once. I didn't use any passcode or anything like that. I just remembered which doors got me to the roof." There was dead silence on Roger's end. She almost groaned. "Roger, he doesn't know about it, honestly. There's nothing that can trace back to him."

"Good. Because you need to keep in mind that Kira is going to see anyone who's associated with this as a threat. And he won't hesitate to kill them." He hesitated a moment before adding, "And when were you dating this person who took you up to Tower Bridge?"

Linda laughed again, more loudly this time. "A few months back before I left Wammy's. No, you never met him, no, I didn't do anything funny with him, and it wasn't a bad breakup. No need to go punching anyone."

"If you think I'd actually go and punch anyone for breaking up badly with you, you're sadly mistaken."

"You disappoint me, Roger. I was under the hope that chivalry wasn't yet dead."

He snorted, and she grinned. "I'm kidding. Listen, I've got to go, I've got another class coming up and people are standing outside the door. But why don't I come by tomorrow, so you can chew me out for being an idiot in more depth?"

"Linda, you do realize that your being an idiot in this could get you killed?"

She glanced at the door where a few children had lined up. "Trying not to think about that just now, actually," she said quietly. "Like I said, you can chew me out later. I've got to go now. Bye."

That class consisted of older children, who were quieter, for the most part. These children had probably asked their parents if they could take the class, and they took their work much more seriously. There were a few who tried to make trouble by throwing bits of paper and pencils at others- they were twelve-year-olds, after all- but for the most part, the students there were absorbed in their work. Linda watched them at the front of the class, her thoughts chaotic. She wondered if she had looked as fierce when she painted as the boy with glasses and dark hair, who was biting his lip and drawing a shield in excruciating detail. For a moment she wondered if any of these children would find something so beautiful or imagine something so vivid that it simply could not be contained. She wondered if they would feel a burning desire to show it to the rest of the world, an ache to display something that others would be better for seeing. And then she thought back to her escapade on the bridge, and how long the banner had taken her to make, and how, if she could, she would have redone L's chin and the eyes, since they had been too blurred and had not been enough. She shut her eyes and tried to determine if she was being dragged along in some kind of whirlwind that had opened when she read Near's file or whether she had something burning to show the world that could not be hidden no matter the danger.

It was not until her head nodded sharply that she realized she was in danger of falling asleep leaning against the front wall of the class. Straightening up, she began to pass from table to table, looking for a raised hand, still pencil, or anxious face. By concentrating on making through five minutes increments, she was able to avoid falling asleep and see her students off without it being obvious that she was in dire need of rest.

Wet sleet was falling as she walked through the winter-darkened streets. Her apartment was in an area of town that until a year or so ago had been plagued by crime. Thanks to Kira, it had become a safe place to live, though it was hardly luxurious or aesthetically pleasing. "Traditional to be a starving artist, right?" she muttered as she unlocked her rickety door. "And I get thanks to the person I'm trying to stop. Ah, I need to sleep."

She stumbled to her desk and flicked on her laptop to see if there was any news on criminal death tolls. There were various unofficial sites that kept track of Kira's killing rate, and she checked all of them studiously. So far there was nothing to indicate her tactics had made an impression. "I'll hate if Roger's right," she mumbled. "That'll be…" Her voice trailed off as she navigated to a celebrity news site that she visited more out of habit than anything else. The largest headline, in bold white letters, lamented the sudden death of Misa Amane, rising pop star and icon.

Linda leaned back in her chair, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of her. "He actually killed her. He actually killed his girlfriend. Did- oh, God- did I cause that? Oh, please no. That can't have been my fault, can it? When did she die?" Her voice came out as a harsh rattle, and her eyes began to fill with tears of their own accord. "What the hell did I get myself into?"

She stumbled off her chair and curled up on her ragged couch, tears streaming down her face. Her whole body ached from her escapades of the previous night. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that her current fragile mental state was due to her lack of sleep. But at the forefront of her mind was the longing for someone to simply listen to her cry. But before she had much time to think about that, she had fallen asleep, tears spilling silently down her cheeks all the while.

The next day she went to see Roger. As she told him about the death of Misa, she found her sobs welling up all over again, though she was able to hold them back as she spoke. It was the silence that hung in the air afterwards that brought them out, and she found herself huddled in Roger's desk chair, crying like a child. He had waited for her to quiet without speaking, and when she finally had calmed a bit, said quietly, "Linda, you don't need to blame yourself for that. She died at least a day ago; though I'm not sure off the top of my head what the time zone difference is. But you put your banner up after she died. Whatever else your stunt may have done, it didn't bring about her death."

Linda took a deep breath and scrubbed her eyes angrily. "Maybe not. But stuff like that can affect other people. Even if it doesn't touch me, it might make Kira do something, kill people he wouldn't otherwise have done. I hadn't thought about that. I hadn't thought about any of it, and now- now I can't stop thinking about it." She shook her head. "Other people are going to die if I make a mistake."

"They'll do that anyway- Light Yagami was killing before you even started scribbling on the walls here, and I doubt your interference will affect his murder rate too much. He can't afford to let that happen. An unknown vandal making that much of an impression on him wouldn't look good. As it is your action went mostly unnoticed and he's going to want to keep it that way."

"Unnoticed. Dammit, Roger, so I really did all that for nothing?"

He shrugged and sat down in one of the visitors' chairs, looking like a lanky folded puppet. "You got on the news. But what next? You probably gave Light a hell of a shock, but now he's going to be looking for you. And you're unofficial, which on the one hand makes you harder to trace and on the other, makes it much easier for him to use whatever means he needs to get rid of you. If you die accidentally, there won't be anything suspicious about it."

Involuntarily Linda glanced at the window, half-expecting it to cave in. "Great. Wonderful." She buried her head in her hands. "I really am an idiot aren't I? I was never cut out for this sort of thing. I'm bloody terrified now, and all I want is to just go back in time and make the whole damn thing disappear! Hell, Roger, was I always this stupid?"

"You were always this impulsive," he replied dryly. "And this wild when you got upset. You weren't cut out for this- you never should have been in the first place- and we both know that. But you've sort of pulled the roof onto your head now. If you want this to go away, you're going to have to hide underneath the rubble."

She grinned in spite of herself. "Roger, you're a poet."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't insult me. But Linda, I mean it. Stay quiet and don't be a bloody idiot no matter what Light and his followers do."

For a moment she was silent. "Why do you keep calling him by name?" she asked at last. "And I'm not trying to change the subject, really," she added in response to Roger's glare. "But why? He's taken away people's confidence in using their given names; why the hell should we honor his?"

"A name's always better than a title. 'Kira' is vague- Light Yagami more specific. Now that we know his name, why keep hiding it behind Kira?"

Linda watched him for a moment. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were about to suggest a way to take him down."

"Well, you do know me better," Roger snapped, but he looked somewhat flattered. "And Linda, please. Just stay quiet and let this go." He turned away and she barely caught his next words: "Because if anything happens to you, then I will have to find a way to take him down."


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm alive! And so very sorry. College walloped me a good one and then work started up right after that ended. And even with my slacking off on fanfic I still managed to do really badly in a class. Le sigh. **

**I don't own Death Note. And ever since Fifty Shades of Grey made it big, I want to be very clear that I will never be making any profit from this or any of my fanfic writings, unless writing practice counts as a long-term investment.**

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><p>With a sigh, Light shoved his chair back from the desk in his new cubicle. He had gathered enough data on deaths suspected to have been caused by Kira and had begun to make an elaborate graph that would compare the number of deaths to the time they had occurred and how long it had taken for the criminals to be killed after their crimes had become public knowledge. It was more than enough work for the NPA that he could take some short time to look into his own projects- specifically finding out more about Wammy's charity and how it might lead him to the person he sought.<p>

There was surprisingly little information about the orphanage to be found online. There was an address and a picture of a well-kept stone building in an online directory, but the home itself had no website of its own, and what little information there was seemed to be confined to school reports, which listed Wammy's as consistently turning out some of the best students in the county. But even those reports were scarce, and the only useful name he had been able to uncover was the name of the orphanage's caretaker, Roger Ruvie. And even that was of little help; he could not be sure that the old man had anything to do with the banner. That seemed to the brainchild of someone younger, which fit with his guess of Linda as the perpetrator. Nevertheless he copied down the Roman letters on a slip of plain paper. If he could come across a picture of the man, he might be able manipulate him into giving him Linda's full name and photograph.

After five more minutes of internet searching, he went back to working on graphs and reports for the NPA. By the time he had finished his reports on the Kira case, it was more than half an hour past the usual time for his shift to end. In addition to his report on Kira's activities, he had turned in three complete and thoroughly meaningless strategies: one for catching Kira and two for reducing his kill rate. All of them would be ineffective if they were implemented, but they would suffice to prove that Light Yagami was hard at work trying to catch the world's most renowned and mysterious serial killer.

He turned his mind back to the problem of how he could investigate someone who was more than halfway across the world and who had done nothing noteworthy. Searching for Linda was made immensely difficult by the fact that he had no idea what her last name was and that there were, as far as he could tell, no photographs of the students to be found. He was uncomfortable continuing his search at the police headquarters, even though he could justify his search by saying he was looking for anyone who might have known of Near or his movements. It was better that he keep his search for Linda confined to places it could not be easily traced.

To that end he left work early by his usual standards and was in his apartment searching diligently for any trace of Wammy's orphans well before the sun had sunk behind the buildings of Tokyo. As the sky darkened and the clouds became stained with the bright lights of the city, Light grew increasingly angry. His search was yielding little to nothing that could lead him closer to Linda or shed light on whether she was even the culprit he was seeking. No matter how often he tried to find a lead into who might have attended the orphan home, he could find no image or photographs of confirmed graduates, and began to wonder if the residents agreed to keep silence about their stay before leaving.

After a few moments, he navigated to one of the websites that made a point of posting the names and faces of criminals. There were many such domains, but _Building A New World_ was by far the most extensive, with a category for fifty different countries and subcategories for different varieties of crime. Light had made use of the information there before, and now began to copy down the names of criminals from England in the London area. This took him some practice, as he was unused to writing in Western letters, and made an occasional misspelling as muscle memory overrode his intentions.

There was a faint rustling noise as Ryuk flopped on the couch behind him. "Light, what are you doing? If you're going to go to England, why are you drawing attention to what's happening there?"

"I need a reason to go there that will allow me to maintain my cover with the NPA as long as possible." He smiled slightly. "The police database is useful. And it's possible the person, whoever they might be is using police information. If they are, they might be giving themselves away through either a computer trace or an inside informer. As long I can maintain my cover as an officer, it will allow me more access and resources through which I can come to the person's identity. If I can convince the British police to cooperate with me, I'll have a much easier time tracking down those at Wammy's charity- including those who've left."

"So you think it's someone from there?"

"It's the most likely possibility at this point; I can't imagine how anyone outside of Watari's orphan home would know L's face. And if I'm right in thinking it's Linda- the only person I know of from that place who's acclaimed as artist- the caretaker at the place would certainly know her. If I can meet with him, I'll be able to use him to give me her information."

"Ah. So you focus Kira's killings on England and then convince the NPA to send you over there as a consultant."

"Exactly," Light said with a thin smile that did not extend to his eyes. Though he was fairly certain that the NPA would allow him to go to England, there was a chance they would tell him that an investigation in England was out of the question. The entire mood of the police of the police department had changed since the Yellow Box Incident- the atmosphere in the headquarters was beaten and listless. Under his original plan, this degradation of the police would have been one of the last steps in his plan to establish himself as Kira. Now it had the potential to greatly hinder him. Until he could reach England, he had no chance of learning more about the banner and who might have arranged it.

He met Mikami at the café a few days later and ran into another snag, one that he had not anticipated.

"If you go to England for any extended length of time, I won't be able to accompany you."

Light glared at the lawyer as Ryuk gave a dry cough overhead. "What do you mean?"

Mikami lowered his head. "I have court cases that have been arranged for months in advance. To fail to appear at any of them will not only allow wrongdoers to escape, but it will also cost me valuable access to criminal files that enable me to do your work."

"My work?" Light snapped. "My work is what I tell you tell you to do, and not your interpretation of my intentions. Do you understand that? You will take your tasks from me no matter what they require."

The young prosecutor lowered his head as though Light had hit him. Light himself realized that he was gripping his coffee cup so tightly it was shaking, and took a slow breath to calm himself. If he made a habit of giving into his anger, it could lead to many mistakes in the future, ones that might be impossible to rectify. He lowered the cup. "In any case, Mikami, I won't be departing for England any time soon. I need time to arrange the circumstances under which I'll be travelling there, and I need your help for that. I'm going to be concentrating my attention on England, and I'll need you to focus on other countries. We need England to stand out, so budget your work accordingly." When the lawyer nodded almost imperceptibly, Light rose. "You've done well so far, and your help now can bring about what is needed. Don't falter now."

He strode out of the door without a backward glance. Bright light streamed down, belying the chilly air. His thoughts were racing. The mind of L had been easy to predict because it was so like his own. Near had been a cheap of copy of that mind, and Mello's only asset had been the emotions that drove the teenager wild. But Light had no understanding or hint of what Linda was like or how she thought. Even her banner had been cryptic. It was such a blatant and childish thing to have done that there had to be some greater purpose behind it. Even the choice of the face was not as simple as it had originally seemed. An idiot would have tried to expose him as Kira, would have put the face of Light Yagami up for the world to see. Linda had made a sign that only he would recognize, and much as he hated to admit it, he had no idea what her next move would be. She was a completely unknown quantity.

Yet as he walked he grew calmer. The endless rustle and talk of people was almost soothing. Now that he had taken the preliminary steps to arrange a visit to England, he was going to take a step he should have taken long before. Before the week was out, his family would no longer be a factor or potential hindrance. And though he would never have admitted it to Ryuk, or even to himself, he felt a faint sense of relief that his plan had been able to be constructed in such a way that his mother and sister could live. It was better that way, he felt. They deserved to live in a better world, and if he could bring it to them by removing himself from their lives entirely, it was a price he could easily pay. All in all, that was preferable to them becoming sacrifices like his father had.

He glanced up at the nearest digital clock. Sachiko, who had taken on an afternoon job at a local grocery every other day of the week, would not yet have returned to the house. Light debated whether or not to go and dismiss the neighbor who took care of Sayu on those days, and eventually decided against it. He could afford to wait until his mother returned from her work.

Sitting down at a convenient bench, he began to survey several different maps of the London area, one that depicted each street and another that showed various suburbs of the city. It was puzzling that there was so little public information available about the place. There were no articles in London that Light had been able to find mentioning the orphanage or its care of children. A house full of unwanted children would stand out like fireworks at a funeral, yet somehow remained nearly untraceable indicated that the place had money and means enough to stay out of the public eye if it wished.

He wondered if Linda had that kind of money and resources at her disposal. If she did, he could expect another stunt or occurrence, something designed to tell Kira beyond a doubt that someone else was on his track. It had been almost a week since the banner had made its appearance on the London news, and though he had made a point of targeting London's criminals in his writings, he would have to do more to re-assert his position. If he fell victim to another public humiliation like the one L had enacted on him while he had been a student, the support he had would suffer a serious blow.

With a few deft movements he folded the maps. If he were to have any hope of guessing where the unknown person would strike next, he would have to gain a better understanding of England and how Kira was perceived there. He headed back to his apartment quickly and began to lay the groundwork for the disposal of his family, as well as gathering as much information as he could about English crime rates. Then he made his way to the house he had once called home.

When Light arrived, it was apparent Sachiko had only just come back from her duties at the store. He could see her in the kitchen wearily placing her handbag on the table and found himself almost reluctant to knock, given that what he was about to tell her would only add to the burdens she was carrying. But it was for the good of the world, for a world she would one day see improved, and so he knocked quietly.

She led him into the house with a murmured comment that he should be resting, given how hard he had been working lately. The affection was still in her voice, even if her former warmth had long disappeared, and Light felt more a stranger to her than ever. After tonight, their separation would become complete, and though he did not regret it, he did find the feeing strange.

"I'm glad to see you're all right," he said after they were both seated in the kitchen. "Listen to me. I came as soon as I could because we had a security breach in the police computers tonight. The personal information of all officers who had been killed in the line of duty was hacked. We don't know what the perpetrator wanted, or even if he plans to make use of what he found, but I think there's a very good chance that Kira's trying to close off all possible angles of attack. My own theory is that he was trying to trace the families of those killed in the Yellow Box warehouse, but I wanted to make sure that you and Sayu were all right."

"We are. For now." Sachiko bit her lip and then clasped her hands on the table. Her eyes glittered in the lamplight. "But is there anything we can do if that's what Kira was looking for?"

Light knew that in earlier years she would have denied that the hacker was even connected with Kira. "Yes," he said softly. "You can leave, with Sayu, as quietly as you can. I've been talking with the directors and higher-ups of the NPA, and though it took a while, they're willing to put you and all families of those who were connected with Kira under protection. It would make you both much safer- since Kira needs your face to kill you, we think that's why he wanted home addresses. If you get ready quickly, I'll be able to get people to help you and Sayu relocate by tomorrow."

"What about you?"

"I can't leave. You know that. I'm L; I'm one of the last weapons left in the fight. And even I've been doing pretty badly lately." He clenched his hands and raised his head. Here he was playing to his mother's highest expectation- and her worst fear: that he would put himself in the line of danger to see Kira captured. "I need to keep working on this case. I can't just disappear because of a potential threat. If I was that kind of person I should have left the case long ago."

"Why didn't you?" she asked. "I keep wondering that. Why don't you just give it up? He's won, Light. Kira's won. He's taken so much, almost everything. Why should you become another of his numbers?"

Light kept silent for a few seconds. "Because better men than me were willing to do just that. If that fate was good enough for them, I can face it too."

"I was afraid of that," she said quietly. "It means I've already lost you to Kira, whether I like it or not."

He froze involuntarily. "That's not true. I'm not lost. I'll keep fighting, for you and for Sayu both."

"I was afraid of that," she said again. "But I've already told you that that's not what's important to me anymore. It doesn't matter. I know that to you this is important. Just don't forget about us, Light."

She said nothing more, and after a minute or two Light called the Intelligence department to tell them that they would need help to gather the Yagamis' things. The sun was rising to a chilly morning when Sachiko and a bewildered but unresponsive Sayu were bundled into a police car and driven off into the distance. Light watched them go until the two cars that made the escort had passed out of sight, leaving him alone before the house with Ryuk hovering like an overgrown bat behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

**A (sort of) timely update! I'm not really sure how I feel about this chapter in terms of quality, but I think the content was necessary to help establish some elements of the rest of the story. As always, constructive criticism is immensely helpful.**

**I don't own Death Note.**

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><p>Linda had stopped at a corner shop a few blocks away from her apartment when she heard someone call her name through the bustle and clatter of the café. Her heart flew into her mouth and she fumbled with her handbag, scattering her change on the floor as she did so. The person who had hailed her dashed forward to help. "Linda, it's been a while! How have you been? Last I heard you were moving out on your own."<p>

"You heard right, Dave," she said with a smile that she hoped was not too obviously relieved. It was indeed her long-haired, lanky-framed ex-boyfriend, who she had not seen for some months. Her relationship with him had been a rather slapdash one, consisting mainly of tea-shop exploring and energetic snogging at the movies, and when they had decided to end their romantic attachment, it had been with no hard feelings on either side. At the time, they both had been heading their separate ways and had decided that friendly though they were, there was little to keep them together beyond mutual good will.

Now she had run into him, in the very tea shop where she had first met him, in fact. Whether it was the relief that he was someone she knew and not some harbinger of official investigation, or whether she was genuinely glad to see him, Linda could never afterwards say. All she knew was that as soon as he had handed her change, she had hugged him tightly and for rather longer than anyone should hug a former significant other. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears.

As soon as she released him, he gave her a quick glance. "Linda, are you doing all right? You look like you haven't had any sleep for days."

"It's not for lack of trying, I can tell you that," she said grimly, and collected her tea. "Lots of bad dreams at first and then that made it even harder to just lie down and sleep." She knew with as much certainty as she could know anything about Light that he did not know her full name or face. Yet for all that she was still on edge, afraid that each stumble, wave of weariness, or near accident was a sign that her name had been written in a notebook across the world.

"Linda? Linda? I wanted to ask if you had a second, I wanted to ask you about something."

Dave was staring at her as though afraid she was going to drop in a faint or have a fit, and Linda fleetingly wondered just how ill and unstable she looked. "Sorry," she said quickly. "Sorry, my mind just started wondering."

The boy opposite her grinned faintly. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost, more like. But never mind. Here, there's a table opening up now in that corner. Can we sit?"

Linda followed him through the bustle of the shop, wondering dully if he was going to ask her out again, though he could do that as well before the counter as anywhere. If he did, she knew she would have to turn him down, and if that were to happen they might not part on as friendly terms as they had before. She knew it could be any number of things, but the fact that he wanted to ask her as far from an audience as possible made her even more nervous than she had been when he first addressed her.

Yet his question, when it came, made her choke on her tea. "Linda, I need to ask you, and I'm sorry- but do you know anything about that Tower Bridge banner?"

"I heard about it," she said, coughing. Inwardly she cursed how jumpy she had become over the past several days, but resolved to make no comment further. To talk too much would show she had something to hide.

He surveyed her closely. "I was wondering if you knew anything more. A lot of us guys who work that sector of the city are getting questioned about it, and I'd rather none of them lose their jobs, if they don't have to."

Dave Quicksilver had a slow halting way of speaking that belied the fact that his words were almost always either lighthearted or direct, and Linda hated his voice for that quality then. She could not tell from his tone whether he suspected her of having rigged the canvas, or whether he was in a pensive mood. Either one was a possibility; Dave would have been below average at Wammy's, but he was still a good thinker, when he had to be. Linda took another sip of tea, her mind racing. "I hope they don't lose their jobs either, but I don't get why you think I could help."

He shrugged. "Well, not much of a reason, really- other than that I took you up to the top that one time. I'm not the only one to do something like that by any stretch, but I don't know anyone who's done it recently."

"Yeah, but- wait- you think I rigged that banner? Just because I was the most recent one to have an out of bonds look at the city doesn't mean I had anything to do with that Kira poster, or whatever it was."

Dave leaned back in his chair. "But you haven't said you didn't do it." His naturally low voice was sonorous, and to Linda, ominous.

"I didn't do it. That satisfy you? I mean, hell, Dave- here I was happy to see and you start interrogating me." But she spoke with less force than her words would have suggested. She thought of the men who worked on maintenance and whether Light would turn in their direction, write their names and wipe them out in an effort to prove his supremacy or shed light on the banner. He could do it almost without trace, she now knew, especially since he could write any cause of death at any time.

With a sigh she lowered the cup from her lips and rested her elbows on the table. Her brown hair framed her thin face like heavy curtains through which she was peeping at Dave. His eyes were on his hands, which fiddled with a napkin. So she'd embarrassed him. Whether she had convinced him was another matter entirely.

Taking a deep breath, she suddenly decided to take the plunge- or at least a somewhat truncated one. "I think I have a few guesses as to who did rig the banner, though," she said in a low voice. "There were a couple guys at the school I went to- they were completely mad, but really, really smart. When all this stuff about Kira started, they dropped out and went off investigating it. I have no clue where they are now, but I'll bet anything one or the other of them's behind this."

"Not both?" His eyes were sharp.

Linda shook her head. "They couldn't have worked together if you chained them to each other and told them the world depended on their cooperation. I wouldn't be surprised if this was actually one of them trying to one-up the other in some way; it's the kind of thing they'd do, you know- do something like that without any thought for who might get hurt by it."

"Can you get in touch with them and get them to tone it down?"

Linda caught her breath sharply, thinking of Mello's ashes and Near's corpse thousands of miles away. "I doubt it, but I'll try. I might get lucky. I knew one of them a little- maybe he'd talk. I can't promise."

Dave nodded. "Okay, then. Well- I'm sorry for startling you and for- well, asking you that." He stood, crunching a battered winter hat in one hand. "Listen, Linda- if you ever want to talk or just catch up, my number's the same. Just let me know." He smiled warmly, which transformed his angular and irregular face into something rather sweet.

Feeling sick, Linda gave him a faint smile and rose with him, walking quickly ahead of him and leaving the shop with a quick wave of her hand. More than ever she wanted the banner forgotten without any trace. Because of it she had become a hypocrite and a liar in a five minute span, to someone she liked and wished well.

The cold bright sun made her eyes water as she walked, and she was glad to reach her apartment and drop her handbag on the bed. She had no classes to teach that night and had only just returned from an interview for a set designer position with a small experimental theater company. The meager amount of money she made from the classes was enough to keep her living, but the banner and paint had taken a rather heavy toll on her bank account. Staring up at the ceiling, she tried not to think about Light and what he had begun. But always her mind kept returning to the banner and trying to think how she might get Light's attention again. The number of criminals dying in England had skyrocketed, and she felt her stomach turn over as she recalled the news reports on that subject. It was safe to assume that if not for her actions, those men and women would still have been alive.

"It's wrong," she said at last. "Plain and simple. He's just using a more advanced weapon than most murderers have to hand, but he's still a murderer and he's definitely not God. And if I can do anything to stop him, I will. Simple as that. Or it should be." She buried her head in her hands for a moment. Never had letting Light's killing spree run its course seemed more appealing. After her conversation with Dave, she wanted to put the entire banner mess behind her.

But she knew that that was impossible now. Light had begun killing criminals all throughout England, and that meant that her banner had had an effect. He was concentrating on England, that much was clear. The question was why.

"He must know that he's got trouble in England," she said at last, and rose to begin pacing. "He knows that he's going to have to find out who rigged that banner and who knows L's face. I don't even know what the hell this killing spree is now, if he's trying to send a message to me or what. Should I stay quiet like Roger says? If I do anything else, it'll almost certainly guarantee that more criminals here will die. So I can't do that. But how do I know what he's going to do next?"

She threw herself back on her couch, mind racing. "Why would he draw attention to England?" she asked the ceiling at last. "If anything, wouldn't he want to avert attention from that incident? I know he's masquerading as L, so wouldn't he be worried about people beginning to question his identity? Why bring his attention down on England and make people look for a reason? They'll find the banner, it was a pretty public thing to do and it wasn't anything like the usual pro-Kira graffiti or posters. Why would he risk that?"

Still pondering, she fell asleep without realizing it and was woken to the harsh ringing of her cell phone in the purse beside her head. It had grown much darker, which made fumbling in her large handbag all the more difficult. At last she was able to retrieve the battered device and answer the call. "Hello?"

"Linda." Roger's voice came through the speaker. "Linda, are you still doing all right?"

"Yeah, absolutely. You woke me up is all. Why?"

There was a very awkward pause. "I hadn't heard anything from you for almost a week."

She grinned. "Yeah, well that'd be because I'm out trying to make money and be an adult," she said lightly. "Did you think something had gone wrong?"

"It crossed my mind," he said, in the tone of someone complaining about a rainstorm crossing their hiking trail.

Linda smiled more gently. "It doesn't need to. Light doesn't know my last name. I know that from my last interactions with him. There's no way he can kill me without that. Plain and simple."

Roger was quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "Have you been following the news?"

"You mean the criminals. I've- yeah. I've been thinking about them a lot actually. They're my fault, I know that."

"Their deaths wouldn't have necessarily occurred without your actions, but you aren't the one responsible for killing them. But have you thought about what Light doing this means?"

"I've thought about it," Linda said heavily. "But I've not really come up with any kind of answer."

"Then here's my theory, for what it's worth: I think he's going to try to come here."

Linda's heart did a somersault. "Why?"

"Because I've been watching our search engine alerts and someone's been searching Wammy's to find its location, any graduates, and possible staff information." Roger paused. "The name Linda came up in the searches, as did mine. I think he's trying to find out about us. And since he was searching for things like our location, I can only assume he's going to either come himself or send a proxy of some kind."

"He'll probably come himself," Linda said after a moment. "When things got ugly with Mello, he was able to send people out to investigate, but he's killed off everyone who could conceivably do that here. He's only got that lawyer person, and if anything I'd bet that guy has less free time than Light himself."

"Really?" Roger said dryly. "I think he's going to stay as far removed from us as possible, and try and use anyone who might know of us to obtain our names. I know he searched my name- all he needs to do is find someone who lives close to Wammy's, write their cause of death with the clause of the person giving him a photograph of me, and that'd be it for me. And you, since he'd probably write my name in with a clause of similar effect."

"Fantastic," Linda whispered, drawing out the word. She racked her brains for another word for the situation. "_Shit_," was the best she could come up with and she opted to leave that unsaid. "Roger, that's really bad."

"It is."

"And that's all you've got to say? Wait- hold on. Don't say anything, actually. Just give me a second." She jumped up and began to pace again. "If he uses a proxy, we're screwed," she murmured, ignoring the phone at her ear. "So we- or rather I- need to make sure he deals with us directly rather than from a distance."

"Inviting him closer is about on the level of inviting a tiger to join you in a confined space."

"No, not quite. If I can get him here, I'll be able to deal with him directly in a country he doesn't know, in a language he's not native to. It would make it a bit easier. But that's not the main reason. From what I remember of Near's file, I think Light's only really got one weak spot, or at any rate, only one factor he doesn't have complete control over."

"And that is?"

"The shinigami Ryuk, the one who gave him the notebook in the first place. I think if I'm going to have a prayer of getting any kind of hold over Light, I need to know more about that- that thing, and under what conditions it gave him the notebook. I mean, you don't give something like a death note away just for the hell of it, do you? There's got to be some sort of price or something."

"If it's Light's soul, I frankly think he lost it a long time ago," Roger said sarcastically. "And I doubt he'd care very much at this point."

Linda scowled. "Okay, so it's a long shot. But I honestly think it's our best shot at the moment. Mikami doesn't do anything without Light's say-so, and I don't think Light would send him to do something like this without either close supervision or a lot more leeway and independence than he's given the guy in the past. Near's stuff was pretty specific- Light never let Mikami do anything in the dealings with the task force without his express permission."

"So where does that leave us? Getting him over to England could take a lot of time and by then he could easily have us killed."

"I know. I'll try and come up with something that doesn't involve stringing a challenge banner off of Big Ben." She sighed. "No wonder Mello was so hell-bent on getting one of the notebooks- if we had one of those right now, it could really be useful."

"Yes, and put you on a par with Light himself."

"You don't think that it'd be justified? Honestly, sometimes I think a death note would be the only way to stop Light at this point."

Roger coughed. "I think as long possible we should try to bring him in under the confines of the law. Or at least concentrate on exposing him as Kira."

"But how? Roger, I keep thinking about that, but I don't know how to do it without really drawing attention to us here."

"Isn't that what you wanted though? You wanted Light closer to home and on your home ground, if I'm understanding you correctly."

"I did," Linda said slowly. A new idea was beginning to take shape, shadowy, but growing more solid with every passing second. "Roger, you've still got that file of Near's, right? Can I come over to see it? There's something I want to take a look at."

He muttered something she couldn't hear. "I'll take that as a yes, then," she said quickly. "See you in a bit." Grabbing her purse and coat, she dashed out the door.

As she made her way through the dark streets, she tried to think about what she would tell Dave. She could tell him something about how she'd been able to garner a promise that her two imaginary scapegoats wouldn't do anything of the sort, or at least would be more careful. There would be more lies to tell and keep straight, more risk that Light would find Dave as a connection to her and use him. Linda spared a moment to thank her luck that she had never had the time or patience to get an online networking account of the kind that let users post pictures online. The site had been popular when she was younger, but it had died out quickly in popularity the more popular and harsh Kira had become.

Her hands shook. If Dave had joined a similar site, then she would have to tell him to remove the pictures right away. Though she knew that the only way Light would use him was if he knew Dave had a connection to her, it was still a risk for him. She wryly wondered how that conversation would go, and put it out of mind as quickly as she could. Wammy's was ahead, looming into the deep blue sky. Behind her the lights of London were staining the night. She took a deep breath and hurried across the street.

Inside the office of the orphanage, she leafed through the file while Roger watched her from the window where he stood with his arms folded. "What are you looking for?" he asked after a moment. "There's nothing there you haven't seen before."

"True, but there are things there that I wasn't paying attention to." She flipped through the pages back to the earliest files, those that L had arranged to have sent in the event of his death. "Like this." Triumphantly she opened a small folder with some email texts and a transcript of a news broadcast. "Did you see this? This guy, one of the members of the task force, actually went on a broadcast back when L was alive, saying that he knew information about Kira. They used it as a way to draw the guy out and get him to show that he was Kira."

"And this wasn't Light- or no, I remember now. This was the rather convoluted point where Light didn't have his memory and passed on the notebook to someone else. Or something like that."

Linda laughed. "Yeah, something like that. You know, this was what actually helped the task force figure out that there were death notes and shinigami. It was what let them know that they were dealing with something more than just- just heart attacks."

Roger gave her a long look. "And you mean to pull something similar? Light was the one who helped arrange that plan, he's not going to fall for it that easily."

"Yeah, but I don't want him to fall for it. I just want him to come here, himself. He likes having as much control over things as possible. If I can convince him that there's going to be exposure, that someone knows all his secrets and isn't afraid to tell them- he'll come just to see what it is that I'm trying to do. He'll need to evaluate the danger, he'll need to know how much I know and how much a threat I am. Also…" She hesitated and her voice shook a little. "He may see it as a chance to get know my face and last name. If he thinks that there'll be a chance to put me out of the way once and for all- he might take it."

"And he might succeed."

"He might. But I think the risk is worth it. We need to know more about him. And we can't do that if he's sitting in Japan. We need him to engage if we'll have a chance of stopping him."

"We?"

Linda closed her eyes. "I, that's what I meant. Sorry. Can I take this file back? I need to get it organized and that'll take a while."

"With you, I can imagine it would."

She grinned faintly. "Being orderly wasn't ever my strong point. But my life could depend on it here." Jamming the papers into her purse, she pulled on her coat and hat. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Roger straightened up and moved back to his desk. He looked as though he was about to say something, then stopped, and gruffly muttered: "Take care."


	10. Chapter 10

**I figured since I began the story with two chapters in Light's POV, Linda could get two in a row as well. And I also wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who is reading this, especially since I've been having some computer issues lately that have been causing delays. Seeing all the hits to this story makes the difficulties in getting it written worth it. **

**I don't own Death Note.**

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><p>The editor of <em>Worldwide News and Affairs<em> looked like a man who had been pinched and molded out of old clay, with a few odd thrift store garments thrown on for good measure. He was staring at his desk with tiny grey eyes that perpetually watered under thin eyebrows. Linda could feel her own eyes watering just looking at him, and kept her eyes focused on the lone magazine on the desk. It contained headlines accusing celebrities of secret pasts, government officials of not actually existing, and disused Underground tunnels of hiding alien experiments.

As far as Linda could judge, the magazine was the type that would print a story like the one she was about to offer them- an in-depth feature of Kira and his methods. Whether or not they would be willing to do so was another matter entirely. She had to couch her offer in such a way that this man and his publication would feel no risk. Above all, she wanted to make sure that they were not put in harm's way. With every day bringing new reports of criminal deaths, she felt she had brought more than enough people to an untimely end through her muddled actions.

A faint cough disturbed her thoughts and told her that the editor, Mr. James Gleeson, had finished reading the brief write-up she had made of Kira's rise to power. She glanced up and folded her hands rather nervously. She knew that the procedure for pitching an article was to give a brief summary of a story, but had a sneaking feeling that that was something done by prospective reporters rather than those seeking to be interviewed. Either way she had written her report and would have to see what the man's reaction would be.

"This is- ah- a very interesting story, Miss –ah…"

"I'd rather not give you my name at this time," Linda said, as steadily as she could. "I've gotten some threats from people who disagree with me and what I believe, so I'd rather remain nameless. At least for now."

"I- ah- I see. Well then, miss, I frankly don't know what to say. We don't allow people to use our publication as a means to promote an agenda."

"I understand. But I think that given the rise of- of judgments here in England, it could be relevant for your readers to hear from someone who believes in Kira. I know that what I'm doing is irregular, but I do really think it's newsworthy."

Mr. Gleeson leaned back in his chair. "Ah. Well. Ah. I have to say, miss, that you aren't the first Kira believer to try and use me as a soapbox. But to allow you to preach under the guise of an interview- it would, ah, be, ah, unethical."

Linda noticed how his fingers were gripping the sheet of paper she had given him with her pitch, and realized, almost with amusement, that he was afraid of what might happen if he ran a story on Kira. She would have to choose her words very carefully now, but this reaction was what she had expected. "I understand that, sir. I'm not going to you out so I can preach about Kira, and I'm sorry if I seemed to come across that way in my pitch. It's simply that none of the other major media outlets will so much as acknowledge that I or any of the others who do believe in Kira exist. I have spoken to others, but they aren't interested. But Kira will be happy if he sees someone stepping forward to help spread his message. It would take someone brave, I know that."

Mr. Gleeson looked torn between flattery and fear, and Linda felt a wave of distaste. She had looked up interviews with Misa Amane that mentioned Kira in order to sound like a genuine supporter, and had been struck by how Misa's interviews had been given with the candor of a child. Linda had tried to emulate her sincerity as best she could, but it was not easy, and she felt all the worse for knowing she was trying to involve this man. But she had too few resources to rely on her own luck. If she was to move against Light, she had to bring him in contact with her, and this was the only way she could see to letting him know her presence. In addition, Light had used news organizations as mouthpieces before, and Linda knew that he would not kill those in charge of the publication unless he deemed them a threat. And in this case, she would be the threat, as opposed to the publication.

For a moment or two there was silence. Mr. Gleeson shuffled his papers and cleared his throat once or twice before finally speaking. "Ah, miss, I, ah, do have a question for you. How did you find that I was the editor of, ah, this magazine? I, ah, arranged my position with this publication so that my name would not be associated with the content."

Linda forbore to say that she had chosen him for that purpose. In her examination of various media publications, only a handful had folded after Kira had made his appearance. One of them had had a reputation for occasionally striking a good story in the midst of tabloid scandal, and it had been somewhat unusual in that the magazine had not declared bankruptcy or folded due to lawsuits, but had simply stopped publishing soon after Kira came to light. Mr. Gleeson had been the editor of that publication, and though it had taken Linda more than a few archive searches and phone book traces, she had been able to find him as the hidden editor of _Worldwide News and Affairs_. Though she had no proof he had retired and set himself up anonymously because of Kira, she was certain that Light's actions had been his motivation. The fact that Mr. Gleeson had not gone out of the business altogether told her that he liked his job enough to do it despite the dangers of working in media; and his actions to hide his identity told her that he was no fool.

She folded her hands and shrugged delicately. "I know a friend of a friend- who had heard something about this publication. Not much of a reason to go looking, but it was just a hunch that I followed up on. I was lucky."

"A friend of a friend who had heard something," Gleeson repeated. For a moment his eyes looked rather sharp, and he reminded Linda of an aging weasel. "Well, ah, I can't say anything for certain. If you have any contact information, I'll see what I can do, but I won't make any promises."

"I understand," Linda said softly. "Thank you for your time, sir. I hope I hear from you soon."

She let out a sigh of mingled relief and frustration when she finally emerged from the office. February was beginning to loosen its grip on London, albeit slowly, and the air was sharper and clearer, though still very chilly. A cold sun was shining overhead, and a few pigeons were fluttering on the sidewalk. Linda pulled out her phone and walked to the nearest bus stop. Her fingers were numb as she searched for Dave's information in her contacts and dialed. Luckily he answered almost immediately. Linda gave a sigh of relief and was about to launch into her newest lie when she remembered that talking about Kira and her illegal banner on a public transport could lead to trouble. "Hey," she said instead. "You remember what we talked about last time? I wanted to get you up to speed- would it be okay if I came over?"

"Yeah, as long as it's quick. I have to go to work in an hour or so. Are you close?"

"Give me fifteen minutes," Linda said, glancing out at the streets. "I'm not too far, I was in the area anyway."

"You were?"

"Yeah, I had an appointment in a sleazy office. I'll tell you about it when I see you, okay?"

"A sleazy office? Of what type? Or given your bohemian way of living, is it not appropriate for other people to hear?"

Linda grinned. "Is that meant to be funny?"

"It was. I thought I'd actually pulled off a successful slightly inappropriate but not too oblique hint at something- um- indelicate."

Linda's laugh made several of the other passengers glare at her. "It wasn't bad. You need more practice though. All you've shown is that you're much better at stating the painfully obvious."

"And here I was trying to branch out." He sounded as though he was smiling.

"Well, I appreciate the effort. I'll see you soon, okay?"

She hung up and stared out the window. A wide smile was playing on her lips, and as she recalled the memory of the conversation, she came close to giggling. As long as she had dated him, Dave had never seemed to have much of a sense of humor, but he had certainly obtained one in the interval between their breakup and reconnection. "A bit insulting, really, that he only gets one after he gets free of me" she said to herself with a grin. "But he's definitely improved since I last saw him. Weird how a few months can change a person."

Her mind wandered back to their first meeting and subsequent dates, and before she knew it she had lost herself in a daydream where she and Dave were seated in their favorite tea shop, laughing together with no trace of Kira or any outside dangers. However the daydream took a rather awkward turn starting with her giving Dave a kiss on the cheek outside his apartment, and she quickly shook herself, turning bright red. They had called off their relationship, and there was absolutely no evidence on his part that he was interested in resuming it. And even if she had let herself slip into wishing it back, she knew that as long as she was engaged in this crazy attempt against Light, she could not drag Dave into it.

When she arrived at Dave's apartment, however, she could not help but notice that he opened the door almost immediately when she knocked, and that he had made something of an effort to sort the apartment's miscellaneous collection of blankets, sheet music, and winter apparel into their proper places. "Is Will still your roommate?" she asked with a grin. "I can't imagine the music coming from anyone else."

"Yeah," Dave said, and drove a hand through his hair. "He still thinks he and his band are going to be the next Rolling Stones. Nothing I say can convince him that drugged up rock stars fall out of favor with audiences unless they actually produce a hit."

"Poor guy. Still, I can't believe you've stuck him out this long. I think I'd have gone crazy with someone like Will as a roommate." She glanced around the room. "I mean, half this stuff is his, isn't it?" She eyed a few stray cigarette ashes lodged in a blue velvet jacket with distaste.

Dave coughed and tried to kick it under the nearest chair. "Uh, sorry. I thought I'd dumped that on his bed. Anyway, what was it you wanted to tell me that you couldn't say in public?"

Linda hesitated, feeling bitterly ashamed of the fact that she was going to have to lie to him yet again. "I did talk to the guy I knew about that banner, and though he won't actually come out and admit it openly- I'm pretty sure he was behind it somehow. And I tackled him about what you guys on maintenance do and how difficult things are, and kind of yelled a bit… Anyway, long story short, I don't think he's going to be doing anything like that again. His plans against Kira are going to take a new direction."

"Ah. Okay. Well, I hope he doesn't get any new ideas about direction. The last thing we need is a Kira-believing nut making everyone panic. The whole city's on edge as it is."

"The whole city?" Linda said bitterly. She sank onto the couch, which was mercifully free from crumbs. "Try the whole world. And they kind of have a point, don't you think?"

"I don't know." Dave sat beside her, twisting his hands and staring straight ahead. His posture reminded Linda of a slightly messy and modern Sherlock Holmes. "You don't really think there's a god out there judging criminals? Why would a god start now? There's no point, when humanity's been doing tons worse things for centuries."

"Isn't that kind of the reason people believe in Kira, though? The people who do horrible things are the ones being punished- at long last, as it were."

"Yeah, and that's why I don't believe this Kira crap. You've noticed all the reactions, with people saying that Kira's doing what they want, acting the way they've always wished someone would. It's way too human. I'll bet you anything you like the government's disposing of the people of whom doesn't approve. They've got all kinds of scientists at their beck and call, I'll bet any of them could have come up with some kind of specific trigger the prisons can use to kill off select people. By keeping it random, they keep people guessing, and deflect suspicion by not using patterns. It all makes sense, you've got to see that."

"No, not really. One government in a sufficiently advanced country I could buy- _maybe_- though I'd still think that was the plot of a bad superhero flick or something. But this is happening everywhere, all around the world, and if you seriously think that that many government leaders could come to enough of an understanding to run a conspiracy, then I've got to say you're even more delusional than the Kira people."

Dave shrugged. "Maybe, but I'd buy that over a god. I mean, I don't think any of the major gods from different religions had one who acted the way this person or thing does."

"How about the Greek fates? They cut the threads of a person's life and that was it. Maybe they fell asleep for a few hundred years and are working overtime." Linda stood abruptly and began pacing back and forth. "I can't joke about it, or even find it funny," she said after a moment. "The whole thing just makes me want to punch something."

"Why? It's not like any of this is your fault."

Linda spun on her heel quickly so he could not see the guilt almost certainly written on her face. "Doesn't make this any less awful, though."

"No."

They were both quiet for a moment. At last Linda looked around. "I should probably let you go," she said, casting around for her handbag. "You said you have work soon, right? Anyway I just wanted to let you know that there won't be anything like that that'll put you or anyone else in harm's way again. Promise."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Really? These guys you know sounded kind of difficult."

"Well-yeah, you're right. But I got enough acknowledgement of my points that I think they'll be a bit less reckless. Let me know if I have to go talk to them again, though."

He gave her a quick smile, and once again Linda felt a pang that she was telling her lies so well. But Dave did not seem to notice. "Thanks for that, Linda. Oh, and- I don't know if you want to stay in touch or not- given the whole dating, awkward ex thing, but it was nice to talk."

She stared at him in surprise and a flush tinted Dave's high cheekbones as he immediately started to stammer: "I mean- well- that- I didn't mean to try and make it seem…"

Linda grinned and before he could finish gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I think it was nice to talk too," she said gently. "And if you want to talk again, I wouldn't mind. Mobile's still the same." Before he could say anything else, she had ducked out of the apartment and hurried out into the street. She had two classes to teach that afternoon and had no wish to be late for either of them.

The children and their pictures passed by in something of a blur. One or two of the children had become surprisingly adapt at drawing faces, and catching details, such as eyes and the shapes of mouths, and Linda enjoyed helping them make progress. Others, such as little Tess who always needed a bit of prompting to put pencil to paper, had a knack for patterns and the alignment of shapes, and balancing their varied questions and keeping their energy in check was enough to take Linda's mind well away from her exploits earlier in the day. Yet when she reached her apartment and collapsed on her couch to sleep, she had no such distractions.

She could not stop thinking about her lies to Dave. Unlike Mr. Gleeson, whose publication and possible platform were vital to her plans to come in contact with Light, Dave had no place in her arrangements to bring Kira down. If she meant to continue against Light, she would have to stop talking to him, stop seeing him, and make absolutely certain that he was utterly removed from her.

And she did not want to do that. Her conversation with him had been enjoyable, and he had made her laugh and smile in a way that she could not recall doing in several days. Yet even as she savored the memories, she felt an undercurrent of nervousness and sick worry. To endanger him and associate him with her just because she felt lonely would be selfish beyond reason. She had not allowed herself to involve Roger; she could not allow herself to involve Dave.

When she woke late the next morning she immediately powered up her cheap and battered laptop to check her email. There were two messages: one a short note from the director of the theater asking a question about her preliminary set sketches, which she quickly exited. The other was a brief note from the editing desk of _Worldwide News and Affairs_ stating that one of their reporters would be in touch with her within the next two days.

Her hand went to her phone, which she had left on the desk by her laptop. Almost before she had time to think, she had pulled up Roger's number and was on the verge of dialing, flush with the success of her plan. Then she remembered her thoughts the previous night, and the number of times she had promised herself and him to work alone, and slowly lowered the phone. She could not call him. She had obtained his grudging permission to borrow the files she found relevant, and more than that he would not go. Telling him about her next step would be inviting an argument.

As she sat at the desk thumbing the phone open and shut, a small envelope flashed on the screen. She was not surprised to see that it was from Dave, but she was surprised at how quickly she opened it. And when she saw an invitation to have coffee when she got the chance, she was started- and faintly disappointed- by how quickly she responded to accept that invitation.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys! If you haven't seen my profile, then here's a brief summary: I'm trying to write more original fiction.  
>That's pretty much it. But it is time-consuming, and in the end, I'd rather be spending more time on that. I'm not abandoning this or any of my fanfic ideas, but they are going to ride shotgun while my original stories take the wheel, so to speak. I'm going to keep writing and updating as often as I possibly can, and I'm going to try to avoid delays of months and months. <strong>  
><strong>Anyway, just wanted to let <strong>**the readers of this fic know why it's taking a while. It's not abandoned by any stretch, but it's not fair to keep letting these gaps go between updates without letting you all know why it's taking so long. Thank you all so much for reading regardless!**

**I don't own Death Note.**

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><p>A babble of voices in a closed NPA conference room was dominated by the booming voice of the newest Deputy Director, a huge man who had been a wrestler in his youth and was a formidable physical force in his middle age. "We can't just assume he's changed locations specifically to England just because he concentrates on the London area," he bellowed, and the whole room went silent. "He's only been doing that for a week and a half, and it was only a year or so ago, wasn't it, that Kira spent a few months concentrating on the California Mafia? We never considered that he was relocated then!"<p>

"Thank you, sir," Light said quietly. He was seated at the foot of the table, and had been interrupted in the middle of explaining his findings by a cry for more decisive action against Kira. "And yes. Kira's location is still most likely in Japan, and it's quite possible this concentration on the criminals of England is a deliberate ploy on his part. As far as I can discover, Great Britain has had a policy of strict silence on anything related to Kira's activities, and won't acknowledge them in any way, shape, or form, though it does occasionally make a report on the actions of Kira supporters. So it's also possible that he's trying to force that country to acknowledge him. We've seen before that he's vain and craves recognition, so this may be a factor in his actions now. Time will tell, of course, whether or not that's the case, but I personally think he's trying to gain more support and wants Great Britain to join the list of countries who are allowing him free movement, as it were."

He glanced around the table, which had now fallen silent, and spoke again, this time with a very deliberate calm. "I understand your desire to do something more substantial than analyzing Kira's motives. But at this time we have very little to go on. Believe me, I want him subdued as much as any of you." He glanced around the table of officers, willing them to remember the fact that he had discovered the decimated task force and the fact that he had lost a father and a family to Kira.

From the downcast eyes and faint murmurs, he guessed that they had remembered and were ashamed. Ryuk chuckled sharply behind his chair, and though Light did not turn his head, he could sympathize with the shinigami's laughter. Aloud he said, "However, I do have a suggestion for the director."

The director of the NPA stirred from where he had been staring at the table. Though he had looked abstracted throughout the entire discussion, Light and every other officer present knew he was very much aware of every word that was spoken and every glance that passed between those in the room. Now he unfolded his hands and turned his sharp eyes on Light. "Yes?"

"I think that the police in Great Britain might be able to provide some assistance in our search for Kira. If they can hide certain criminal faces and not release some kinds of information about crimes, I think it would be helpful in determining how much access Kira has to their databases. Unlike here in Japan, Great Britain doesn't make a habit of broadcasting the faces of criminals unless their crimes are high-profile enough to make the news in some way. The fact that so many criminals are dying there seems to indicate that Kira has some kind of insider access to that country's police databases, and if we could locate his point of access, it could help us in locating him. Unless he's a master hacker, he would leave a trace of his access to information, and the British police could help provide that trace."

"Do you really think they would be open to helping us look for that trace, or even allowing us to search through their systems? If they refuse to acknowledge Kira, then they probably won't welcome outside law enforcement infringing on their work."

"I've been thinking about that," Light said calmly. "And I think we might be able to get international law on our side. As far as I know from my contacts with the international police, they still want Kira to be found and brought to trial. Even if Great Britain will not acknowledge Kira, I think they will have to pay attention to an international law enforcement organization telling them that they need their cooperation for an investigation."

The director nodded slowly. "Can you obtain Interpol's permission to request the help of the police force in England?"

"I think so. I've yet to propose this plan to them, since I've only recently developed it and I wanted to make sure it was acceptable to you first. But I think once Interpol understands how helpful this could be in narrowing Kira's point of access to police data, they'll be willing to get the British police to comply."

For a moment or two the director stared at the table, and the whole room fell silent. Light himself was painfully aware of how thin his reasoning to the necessity of a trip to England was. But he kept silence with the rest of the room and waited on the director. Light knew him to be an intelligent man, but one who was too much inclined to listen to others rather than do much digging for himself. For that reason he wished to stay in the man's good graces as long as possible; a person of authority who was easily manipulated always came in handy.

Just when the silence had grown so long that Light had resigned himself to travelling to England on his own initiative and expense, the director stirred and looked at him. "Do you think this is necessary to stop Kira?"

"Necessary?" Light repeated. "Strictly speaking… no. We probably would be able to continue our investigation without this information making much difference. However that's part of the problem as I see it. Our investigation's stagnated. Kira dealt us a very serious blow when he took out the task force, and we've recently suffered an attack on our own database that very likely came from Kira or one of his allies. We don't know why he did the latter as yet, but I think we can assume there's a connection to them. All of his actions as we know them need to be taken as part of a larger context, a greater plan. I know how farfetched it sounds, but I do think there's a connection between our recent database trouble and the recent killings in Britain. I'd like to know what that connection is."

"As would we all," the director said heavily. He leaned back in his chair. "Do you think it's likely that visiting England will give you the information we need?"

"I think it will help in determining what Kira's long-term plans are. As it is, we know England's death toll among criminals has grown, but only because of the occasional news report. If I go over there in person, and in an official capacity, I'll be able to get more information."

"Then do your best to get what you can." The director's voice had the ring of finality. "When you get through to Interpol, let me know what they say. It's possible they may want L's attention for other cases."

Light gave a tight-lipped smile. "It's possible. It's very possible and if that's the case, I'll make sure they have the same answer that L would have given- I take cases based on what holds my interest, and after everything Kira has done, this is the only case that holds my interest. Until it ends with Kira caught, it's the only one that will."

He deliberately spoke in a monotone, to counter the hyperbolic nature of his words, and it seemed to have the effect he'd hoped. At any rate those around the table of officers were silent, some with bowed heads. Indeed the lone sound that filled the room was one only Light could hear: Ryuk's grating chuckle that seemed to hover in the air like an intangible smoke.

At length the director stirred. "It seems we've said all that can be said. Light, make the call as soon as you can. Everyone else, I'd like to see you focusing on the crimes Kira hasn't been able to stop, and I'd also like to see if we gain any leads as far as location. I want two teams of four each focusing on the news broadcasts. I understand," he raised a hand as a faint murmur arose among the officers, "I understand that Kira has proved he has access to police data. So before you begin to focus on the news broadcasts, I want all of you take all of our criminal files, back them up onto external hard drives, and print out all their information. Then we'll wipe our computers. We're going to try going old-fashioned for a change, paper and ink. Even if we can't stop the broadcasts, we can try to avoid helping Kira by giving him digital access to our databases. And Light, if you come in contact with the English police, put me in touch so I can ask if they'll do the same thing. I'd like to see if making that change to files will have any effect on what Kira can do."

"Of course, sir," Light said quietly, inwardly seething. This man was an idiot with no initiative and very little intellect; and yet in one short speech he had set Light back considerably. While he had written enough names in the notebook to last him for a month or so, he knew that if the British police adopted this system of cataloging criminals, it would throw a wrench in his plans to stay entrenched in their country for enough time for an investigation.

As soon as he had left the room and had made his way out into the brightly lit street, Ryuk cackled loudly. "How will that affect things, Light?"

"For now, not at all, but later it could a problem," he replied shortly.

"How so?"

"I'll have enough criminals named here in Japan for a while, but outside this country, I have only a few countries where I have complete access to criminals. For the rest of the world, I have only Interpol's database."

"That comes from being L, right?"

"Yes. But if criminals only known to Interpol are the ones dying, sooner or later, someone there will become suspicious. I hate to give any of the international police too much credit, but they didn't come to the positions they hold without being able to make connections to things like means and opportunity."

He made his way back to the small café in silence. Mikami was there, peering at a sheaf of legal documents. The lawyer looked particularly abstracted, and did not notice Light's arrival until he sat down. It was late and no one was in the small store save for the waitress and the barista. He looked at Mikami, who was putting his papers away with a guilty air. "Listen to me," he said without preamble. "I need you to find out the names of this man's family." He shoved the working profile of the NPA director across the table. "His name and address should be listed there. Pick one that you believe is likely to fall into some kind of accident, and have them linger in a coma for at least a month before they die."

Mikami stared at him. "Why?" He sounded, to Light's bewilderment, worried.

"Why? Isn't enough that I'm asking you to do it?"

The lawyer reached up to touch his classes and adjust them to a marginally different position on the bridge of his nose. He stared at the table as though it was a witness in the stand. But even as Light looked at him, he realized that metaphor was not quite accurate. Mikami looked as though he was wishing someone would step in and say something for him, which was a very new expression for the man before him. At last the lawyer looked up. "What has this man's family done? What crime did they commit?"

Light opened and closed his mouth for a moment. He was on the verge of saying that they had done nothing, but that was hardly the point, for when a god commanded something it was done; and was only barely able to stop himself. Instead he spoke as calmly as he could. "That man there has hindered me, and I need you to punish him for me in such a way that he will understand that he has overstepped his bounds. And for such a message to have any meaning, it must take a form he will comprehend. If he gives me loss, I will repay him in the same way."

"I see," Mikami said. The uncertainty had not left his voice, but at least he no longer looked as though he was searching for the fire escape. "How quickly will you require this to happen? It will take me some time to investigate this man's family and find out which of them would make the most fitting punishment."

"By tomorrow at the very latest," Light said firmly. "Make sure that you find someone who is close to him, so he will know how badly he has transgressed. I'm counting on you; do not let me down."

He rose and left the shop. Ryuk kept silence until they had reached Light's apartment before speaking. "You sounded ridiculous, Light. How do you know Mikami's not going to see through your whole charade sooner or later? He's not a dumb guy, even if he is nuts."

"See through what?" Light asked coldly. "I want to bring justice to the world. He knows that, and he has the same goal."

He waited for a response, but all Ryuk said was "Where are the apples, Light?"

The next day Light placed a call to Great Britain's Interpol representative from NPA headquarters. The represntative seemed willing enough to allow Light to come to that country and investigate, but he was politely firm when Light broached the topic of possibly joining forces with police there. "I'm sorry, sir," were his words when Light asked about the methods the British police had been using to track Kira's killings, "but I can't tell you that. When you arrive, how much information you receive will be up to the discretion of the police commissioner, and I'd have to ask that you confine your investigation to yourself. You are more than welcome to any assistance the police can offer, but I want to be clear that you have no authority to order them into any sort of action without the express permission of higher authorities."

"I understand," Light said in a placating tone of voice. "I'm not trying to infringe on your authority, but I do want the police to be aware that I may need to ask them about Kira, to help me in my own investigation." Out of the corner of his eye he saw a receptionist hurry up to the director's desk with an agitated look on his face. Light shoved his chair back and deliberately slouched so he could better see the director, who had stood up abruptly. "That's all. I apologize if I sounded as though I was going to infringe on your authority; I do not always realize how my English sounds."

This was a lie; he knew exactly how his English sounded, but knew it was best to cultivate an appearance of being relatively new to the language. If the English police believed him to have a limited understanding of their language, they would have a hard time associating him with a killer who was known for striking all around the world.

"That's quite all right," the man said calmly. "Are you planning to come to England soon?"

"I was hoping I might be able to come within the next few days, if that is all right."

"I think that should be possible. Will you be coming alone?"

Light thought about Mikami and his court cases, and the note of hesitation in his voice when Light had told him to find a suitable victim in the director's family. He glanced back at the head desk, which was now deserted. He caught a glimpse of a coat vanishing into the nearest set of elevator doors, and heard a flash of thinly veiled panic in the director's phone conversation just before the elevator doors shut.

He wondered who Mikami had found in the director's family, and how long it must have taken. Light could imagine the lawyer siting up all night, searching family trees and ancestral websites, tracking down different members of the family and deciding which of them would be the best option to die. Mikami could clearly work well under pressure.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"I apologize- I'm still here," Light smiled thinly at the phone. "There'll be one other person coming with me. My personal assistant: Watari."


	12. Chapter 12

**I have many excuses, but they mostly boil down to school and work, so I won't bore you with them. If you've completely forgotten everything that happened in the three months since I updated (_three freaking month_s I am so very very sorry), Linda's up against Light, had just done a fake interview to try and bait him out. Light knows someone's trying to go against him and is pretty sure it's her, and has just made plans for a trip to England.**

**Any questions? Okay, good. I owe one reviewer big time: Anime-StarWars-fan-zach's review actually got me out of my guilt-ridden avoidance of this fic and got me writing this chapter as soon as I got some spare time, rather than in the middle of next January. So thanks, zach, and anyone else who is still reading this. It means the world to me.  
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**Oh, and anyone who can spot the Agatha Christie reference gets a virtual gingerbread cookie. Hope you all had a great holiday, whatever you celebrated.  
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**I don't own _Death Note_.**

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><p>The sun was beginning to descend rapidly; Linda could tell by the lengthening sunbeam that left a pale ray on her battered couch. She glared at her mobile phone. In an hour and a half she would have to head over to the community theater to drop off her preliminary sketches for sets with the director there. There was no art class that night, and she was deeply grateful for that. The thought of stepping outside seemed to make her bones turn to lead. A copy of <em>Worldwide News and Affairs <em>was on the floor by the couch, folded open at her deceitful interview. She had scanned it once and could not bring herself to look at it again. The smudged ink and even columns were yet another sign that she was digging herself deeper in her battle against Light. Each step she took made turning back harder.

Her phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Dave, a simple "Wanted to check in, make sure we were still on for tomorrow night." Linda took a deep breath. There had been a few coffee meetings since she and Dave had run into one another, and tomorrow night they had decided to have a more formal dinner. She began to type a response when the phone rang suddenly, blaring through the stillness. She jumped involuntarily and swore as she dropped the mobile between two faded cushions on the couch.

"Stupid," she muttered. "Get a grip." She flicked open the phone. "Hello?"

"Linda? It's Roger. Are you free right now?"

Her heart began to pound. "Yeah, for another hour and a half. Is something wrong?"

Roger's voice immediately took on an edge. "No, of course not. Are you expecting something to be?"

Anger washed over her suddenly, a deep resentment that even though she was supporting herself and living alone he still felt as though he could reprimand her. "No. Why did you call?" Immediately she felt bad and added. "It's just that when you do call, I always wonder if something went wrong with the kids, or if you need help or something like that."

He grunted, sounding supremely unconvinced. "Yes, well nothing's wrong. I was calling because I remember you applying for a sketch artist's job at the local police branch."

Linda blinked. "Yeah, but you need more forensic training than I had. I made it past a few interviews but they ended up hiring someone else. Why?"

"Because they had a burglary and assault a few blocks out from where you live and have a witness who can describe the perpetrator. Allen- don't know if you remember him, he came to Wammy's to do a talk on police work when you were still in school- called me up a few minutes ago and said that their usual artist got the flu. He wanted to know if you'd be interested in filling in. I know you're always looking for opportunities to draw."

"Always looking for money, you mean," Linda laughed. "And yeah, I'd definitely be interested. I take it this is only a one-time thing?"

"At the moment, but it can't hurt if you ever want to apply elsewhere."

"Yeah. I'd love to take the job- do you have whats-his-name's mobile number?"

Roger rattled it off while she scribbled the digits on the back of her hand. "Thanks. Okay, now should I go to the station, or..."

"Just let him know your coming and go to the station. I don't think it should take too long for you."

"My superpower is speed-drawing," she said with a grin. "Okay, great. Money, I love it. Thanks so much for telling me. I'm going to call the guy up now."

"Do that. Enjoy the benefits of crime- they may not be around for much longer."

"Yeah," she whispered. "No kidding. Okay. Bye, Roger."

She hung up and glared at the phone, then at her shaking hands. "Thanks, Roger. Thanks a lot. That reminder. All I needed." Her gaze fell on the copy of the magazine, and she sprang up and crumpled it viciously. She was about to throw it in the trash when she realized that until she had a better idea of whether the article had actually made an impact, it would be best to keep it. It was not as though Light would be investigating her apartment, and she would have to keep careful track of her own movements to make sure that there was no possibility Light could discover her.

After a few deep breaths, she dialed the number written on her hand. Allen was a pleasant-voiced man, who sounded a little older than Roger and much happier with his life than her former guardian. He arranged to meet her at the local police branch in half an hour. She let out a silent sigh of relief when he told her the address, since it was only a few blocks away from the local theater. She would probably be able to finish the drawing and drop off the sketches without any trouble. If the police paid her on the spot, it would be a much better night than she had been anticipating.

The wintry air was less biting than it had been a few weeks ago, but nonetheless she wanted February to end. The bus ride to the station was quiet and she felt calm when she arrived. Composite drawing was a strength of hers, and even though she had not had the forensic experience to beat her competition for this particular job, she was confident in her ability to sketch something from description.

At the front desk, she checked in and within a few minutes Allen, a tall man with brown hair and smile wrinkles, took her to the back of the station. There were many empty desks, though there was a fair number of people still filing paperwork and making phone calls. Linda glanced around to see a fair amount of jackets slung over empty chairs. "There some sort of party going on?" she asked with a smile. "Or is this just a coffee rush?"

Allen smiled. "No, there's a meeting of some sort going on. Some bigger investigation taking place in this part of town, so there's a meeting going on about it. Something to do with some old unsolved cases from a few years back."

Linda nodded, aware that he probably was not allowed to be more specific. They reached a desk where an elderly woman with yellow teeth and wispy hair was seated. Allen stopped beside her. "Mrs. Martingale, this is Linda Grey, the artist who's going to be sketching out our perpetrator from your description. Miss Grey, this is Mrs. Martingale."

Linda shook hands with the woman and took out her sketchpad. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Martingale. Give me just a minute to get set up here." She drew out her sketch pad and pencils, very conscious of Allen standing nearby. Inwardly cursing her nervousness, she gave the woman a brief smile. Mrs. Martingale did not return it, and Linda could hardly blame her. Likely she just wanted to get the interview over with and get home. A surreptitious glance at the wall clock confirmed for Linda that she had about an hour til she had to meet the director. That was calming.

She settled in the nearest chair and grabbed a pencil. Allen seemed satisfied and turned to Mrs. Martingale. "I'm off to get to that meeting; I've just been paged for it and it's my boss asking. If either of you need anything let the front desk know."

Mrs. Martingale stirred. "Unless they can get me a drink, I'm not interested. Come on." She glared sourly at Linda. "Let's get this over with. He was a tall guy, narrow face, long nose, and hair down to..."

"Okay, wait!" Linda exclaimed, and wanted to slap herself for the near-squeak of her voice. "Sorry. You said he had a narrow face and a long nose." Her pencil began to move across the page and she immediately felt calmer. "Can you tell me whether the nose was hooked or straight?"

She prayed her complete inexperience with this type of interview would go unnoticed, but Mrs. Martingale looked suspiciously at her. "He was running," she snapped. "How should I know? He had a long nose, stuck out a mile ahead of him."

Linda nodded and resisted an impulse to slink under the desk. "Thanks," she murmured. She racked her brains for the forensic courses that had been required at Wammy's. The anatomy of the human face was a tricky thing, but it was hardly impossible. She had drawn faces from description before and she could do it again. She bit back a curse as she recalled that the instructor had said to always start with the eyes. Then she calmed herself. She could always ask about the man's nose later. "Can you tell me what his eyes looked like?"

Mrs. Martingale stared. "You mean what color they were?"

Linda shook her head. "No, sorry. I mean, were they small, large, close to the nose, wide apart."

"Oh, I see. They were pretty normal, though I think..." She paused and puckered her bottom lip between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. "I think he had a scar on the cheekbone almost right below the eye. His right eye."

Linda's pencil made a few faint traces beneath the oval that would eventually be the right eye. "How about his eyebrows?"

"I don't know. They weren't- I think they were gray. Which is weird. He had brown hair."

Linda nodded. "All right, that's good. Do you think maybe his hair was dyed?"

"Yeah, probably. It looked bad, like there were clumps in it or something."

"How long was it?"

"It hung around his face, parted in the middle. He looked a little too old for that hair, if you ask me."

Linda looked around and found a book of mugshots waiting on the far left of the desk. She wished she had noticed it sooner, but did not immediately point it out. Instead she made a few rough outlines to the oval and did some tweaking to the scar. Then she looked up. "Thank you. Now, can you look through some of these, try and pick out features that you think might look similar?"

Mrs. Martingale stared at her. "You mean I'm looking for him in here?"

Linda held back a groan with considerable difficulty. "Not exactly. I'm hoping you can look through these pictures and see if someone has a similar nose, or eyes, or anything like that, to the person you saw. For instance, if this man here," she flipped open the book and pointed to a random photograph, "had a nose that looked like the man you saw, you tell me that, and I can draw it in. Or if this man," she pointed to another, "had similar eyebrows, you tell me that. That makes the drawing a little bit easier."

"Oh, I see." Mrs. Martingale pulled the book closer and began to pore over the pictures. "Well, he needs a shave," she muttered. "And good God, what is the matter with that woman's mouth? Looks like she painted her lips blue."

Linda gave the clock an anguished glance, but only seven minutes had gone by. She told herself to think of the money and leaned back in her chair, trying to look professional and calm. Down a hall that extended away to her left, she heard the sound of voices and saw several men and women in suits emerging from some office. They were all murmuring anxiously, and she remembered the meeting Allen had mentioned. A small knot of men eventually broke away from the main pool of people, and Linda dropped her sketchbook with a clatter.

There were three men standing there: Allen, looking weary but otherwise normal; a silver-haired man that Linda recognized from the framed photographs on the wall as chief inspector; and a young man, tall and thin, with bronze hair and pale brown eyes. She knew him from her close study of the photographs in Near's file. Light Yagami, former suspect in the Kira case and false successor to L, was standing in the entrance to the hall.

His head began to turn toward the desks, even as he murmured something to the chief inspector. Linda ducked in a panic and cracked her head on the edge of the desk. She hissed in pain and began to rummage for her sketchbook. If, Heaven forbid, Allen caught her eye and tried to introduce them, she would die, she was certain of it. She picked up the notebook and dropped it again, catching a glimpse of the feet in the hall. Until they moved she could not risk sitting upright.

A page flipped on the desk overhead and Mrs. Martingale's voice rang out. "Hey- hey- that looks a lot like the guy I saw, same cheekbones, damn hollow."

"Shit," Linda breathed to herself, and regained the sketchbook. Her heart was racing. Then she saw the feet begin to move. She made up her mind suddenly and stood quickly and, she hoped, fluidly. Without even glancing in the direction of the hall, she quickly turned her back to it and leaned over the picture Mrs. Martingale had indicated.

"Good," she said quietly. "Now was his face built on similar lines? I mean, was he a bit heavier set, skinnier...?"

"Oh, definitely skinnier. His face looked even more pinched than this guy's, but the way the chin looks miles long and the cheeks are right below the eyes... that was like him."

"Wonderful," Linda said with a smile. Her palms were slick with sweat. She sat down and resisted the temptation to dive under the desk again. Light was the front desk now, at a diagonal angle to her, writing something on a card while Allen and the chief inspector conversed behind him. If he turned to face them, one look to his left would be enough for him to see her. She took a deep breath and leaned over her drawing. Then she forced herself to listen for the conversation.

"All right," she heard the chief inspector say. "I'll take another look through the files and set aside a few people to canvas for any recent purchases along the lines you're describing. You've got the files; is there anything else you need?"

"No," Light replied. "That's all for tonight, and I appreciate your help. If you need me, call Bertram's Hotel. I'll be staying there for the duration of my time here."

Linda nearly dropped her sketchbook again. For once, it seemed, she had gotten lucky. She knew where Light would be staying. Now all that remained was for him to leave without seeing her, and she could breathe more easily.

He turned toward the desks and she ducked her head to lean over the sketchbook. If he asked for an introduction, she would have to come up with an excuse to leave. From the churning sensation in her stomach, she would hardly have trouble manufacturing one.

More murmurs came from the front of the store, Allen's voice among them. Linda felt lightheaded. She bowed her head so her hair obscured at least half her face and glanced through the brown curtain to see Light regarding the room full of desks. She could not tell if he was looking at anything in particular. Many of the people who had been in the meeting were beginning to filter back into their places. More than one walked in front of Linda.

At last she saw Light turn away. Allen and the chief turned back to the room, and Light disappeared out into the foyer of the station. Linda caught a glimpse of his immaculately cut suit before the door closed behind him. She let loose a shuddering breath and straightened to find Mrs. Martingale staring at her. "You look awful," the older woman said bluntly. "Are you sick?"

Linda nodded as her stomach lurched again. She rose swiftly and grabbed a passing sergeant to gasp out of a request for the bathroom. The man pointed down the hall and practically shoved her to speed her going. She did not care. There was a cramped little door with a toilet sign on it and she barged in just in time to be violently sick in the small toilet. There was so little in her stomach that she could do little more than heave. It was a suffocating feeling, but nowhere near as suffocating as the realization that she had been one glance and a few words away from certain death.

Afterward, she wiped her mouth and walked in front of the cloudy mirror to wash her hands and smooth her shirt. "All right, Linda," she snarled at her reflection. "Keep it together. He didn't see you. He doesn't know who you are. Finish the job here, get your paycheck, and get out. You got lucky; don't waste it." Unsurprisingly she still felt too weak to stand. She leaned over the sink and took slow breaths.

At last she made her way back to the desk where Mrs. Martingale was sitting and tapping her foot. She finished the drawing of the suspect in question like a robot, barely aware of anything she was saying. Indeed, the only reason the sketch became passable was through her forcing herself to think of nothing but the drawing. Only the lines and their shading mattered, and whether they matched to the dazzlingly vague descriptions Mrs. Martingale could provide. She was astonished when she held up the drawing and the woman exclaimed, "Yeah, that's pretty close! Looks almost exactly like the guy I saw."

Allen appeared beside the desk as if by magic. "Excellent. I'll have this printed out and put into the system immediately. You're free to go, Mrs. Martingale, and if you'll wait just a minute, Miss Grey, I'll get the payment taken care of."

Mrs. Martingale stood up and moved to the door, grumbling to herself as she went. Allen followed her. Linda packed up her pencils without seeing them. The whole room seemed to be spinning.

Allen reappeared shortly. "If you'll come with me?" Linda rose and he led her to the front desk to hand her various forms. "Sorry about the delay. Meeting took up time."

"It seemed pretty big," Linda said with a smile that felt more like a grimace.

"Well, foreign consultants aren't something you get every day. He was asking about you, actually- saw you in the room, wondered what you were doing. I guess they don't have sketch artists in Japan."

This time Linda did not jump. She froze for a split second and then continued filling out the forms. "Did he?"

Her voice sounded robotic, but Allen did not seem to notice. "Yes. He actually wanted to know who you were."

By some miracle of self-control, Linda made herself laugh. "Flattering. So do I have a date?"

Allen laughed as well. "I don't know. But I did tell him your name, so who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky- or rather, he will, I should say."

Linda stared at him with her mouth open, and he turned bright red. "That- that came out rather badly."

She remained frozen in place, and Allen looked utterly humiliated. "Um, do you want me to call you a cab? No charge, a bonus for helping out."

Linda's brain finally snapped into action. "No thank you," she croaked. "I'll be fine."

"You sure?" he asked. "That Martingale woman told me that you got sick while you were interviewing her, and you look in a bad way."

Unable to come up with an answer, she stumbled towards the door. "Sure," she murmured. "Sure. That's fine. All right." She imagined Light in his own cab, heading for Bertram's Hotel, taking out a piece of notebook paper and a pen. She could imagine those thin lips turning up in a smirk and the scratch of the pen on the paper.

Lost in terrible imaginings, she nearly fell down the outer stairs, and Allen caught her arm. He darted forward as soon as she reached the pavement. "Here, I see a cab there. Hey!" He sprang forward, waving his hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, Linda saw the upcoming lights of the taxi. Just as Allen took another step forward, she noticed the peculiar gleam of the station lights on the pavement where Allen's foot was about to land. It was ice.

Linda's cry was drowned by the blaring horn as Allen's feet went out from under him. He fell to the road, and Linda caught a brief glimpse of his terrified face before a gigantic lorry crushed his hapless form beneath its wheels.

She did not scream. Everything seemed to halt for one long lingering second as Allen's body twitched and the lorry careened to a hissing stop. Her legs began to move seemingly of their own accord and she turned away, lurching like a drunkard. The only thought in her mind was that if she was known to a be a witness to Allen's death, Light would be able to see her face to face. And though the part of her that wanted Light's reign to end was screaming at her cowardice, she kept walking until the lights of the police station and the horrified sounds of the gathering crowd before it were lost in the night behind her.


	13. Chapter 13

**You guys, I'm so sorry about how late and short this is. I could catalog my college woes here, but it would be a shockingly long list. Part of the reason this chapter was so late ties into why it's so short- I ran myself into a corner with the alternate points of view and had a really hard time sorting out how I could fix that in terms of the storytelling. From here on out, it won't be a problem. I also had issues with my computer and the format of this file becoming terribly wonky, but that also should be sorted out. Hopefully. *crosses fingers*  
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**I don't own Death Note.**

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><p>The taxi pulled up to the luxurious and quiet Bertram's Hotel. Light paid the driver, double-checking the foreign currency as he did so. He looked with some disgust at the dirty slush and grainy sidewalk as he ascended the hotel steps. Though he had always thought of himself as detached and able to adjust to any contingency, he had to admit he was not enjoying London. The city was gray and dreary with odd splashes of color. In Japan he was used to thousands of lights and constant brilliance. Here there was only a handful of the things to which he was accustomed.<p>

Yet that was no excuse for the recent sloppiness of his recent crime. Then again, that might have been his thought because of the fact that his plan, conceived on the spur of the moment, had come so close to succeeding.

Even as he thought about his most recent killing, however, there was no reason it should have not have worked. Ever since his arrival in England, he had ransacked his brains to come up with a way to see Linda's face. Mikami would be joining him in two days, and it would help to have someone who could do legwork while he satisfied both the police of this country and focused on getting Linda into the open.

He made his way back to his room, ignoring the murmured greeting of the clerk, and went back into his room to think. Solitude had always been helpful in clearing his head, and he was in a state of turmoil. Linda had been in the same room as him, and by dint of a simple movement, she had been able to thwart him. He knew her name, a simple easy one that could be written in a sentence. But he did not know her face.

Though Light was loath to admit it even to himself, he knew that he simply had never given the two most basic rules of Death Note use much thought. He had never had any difficulty in obtaining the names of his intended targets, since most of them had arrest records that were kept in a database, accompanied by mug shots. If he needed the face of someone outside the law, he could usually track down someone in proximity to them whose name and face he knew. From there it was simple enough to write a directive that they take a photograph of the person he was after. He had used that trick more than once. But in this case, Allen, the man who had met him at the airport and who had seemed far too dull and dense to hold the high rank he had, had been his link. And now that link had been squandered.

Had he been more patient, he might have constructed a better plan. But when Allen had mentioned over the course of the ride from London's airport that his old friend Roger had known a detective as young as Light, that had been a blast of such unexpected good luck that it had made him careless. He had asked a careless question or two, ascertained that this Roger oversaw an orphanage, and from there, the rest had been simple. A quick glance at Allen's card after getting to the hotel. A quick scratch of the pen to write the name James W. Allen. A quick scribbling of annotations: _"On March 1st calls up his friend Roger to ask for a substitute sketch artist to come to the station. Specifically requests the student known as Linda. Dies that night in a car accident."_

The most galling thing about the whole affair was that, as hastily thrown together as it was, it had worked. Linda had come to the station, he had been in the same room as her, and had been unable to touch her. He was regarded as a god around the world, and had been unable to deal with a mousy and insignificant girl when she had been within his sights.

He replayed the meeting that night in his head. He had seen the girl hunched over at her desk, tall and thin with thick brown hair that fell just in front of her face enough to completely obscure her features. As if to tease him, the image of her slender hand with its thin graphite-smudged fingers was clearly stamped on his brain. Gritting his teeth, Light threw open his laptop and glared at the screen for several seconds. Then a thought came to him, and he smiled slowly. The beginnings of a plan had come into his mind.

Linda had evaded his gaze in the room, but the fact that he had been able to get in the same room with her at all opened the possibility that she knew nothing of his movements. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that she had not known he was in England. Her ducked head and tense hands had struck him as a sign of surprise and fear, not anticipation of an opponent. Even Near, tense as he had been in their encounter, had had an air of strength and certainty. The strange child had believed he was in control of the situation.

Linda had had no such confidence. She had been hiding with only the resources she had available- which was sheer impossible luck. There was no juggernaut behind her, no looming investigation, not even a great intellect. If she had had a plan or had intended to confront him, she would have done so.

Instead she had hidden her face and crept away.

In a way, it was a relief that she was not the threat he had feared, but she still knew far too much for him to be comfortable. She clearly had known L, and, more worringly, had known enough about how he killed to hide her face from him. If she were to take her information to someone of greater ability, he could be in serious danger.

He looked up to see Ryuk watching him. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to Light that the shinigami was looking maliciously amused. He said nothing and turned back to the notebook, tapping it with a pen. "I know her name. I had her there. How I could have missed her-"

He sat up suddenly.

He sat up suddenly. "I had her there. And if she was anywhere near there when Allen died..." He glanced at the clock. Alan would have met his end not twenty minutes before. He did not know if the department would give him a phone call about the incident, but sooner or later they would have to alert him. In the meantime, he had work to do.

An hour later he was outside the orphanage known as Wammy's House, clad in jeans and a sweatshirt. The place was dark, with the exception of a light that glowed on the corner of the second level of the house. The hour was late, but Light had not yet shaken the lingering effects of his own time zone, and he was in no mood to sleep. He wondered if the light was the office of the caretaker, the friend of Wammy's who had been left captain of the drifting ship left in the wake of L's death. He waited for another two hours before the light was turned off. Evidently Mr. Ruvie lived on the premises of the orphanage.

That was problematic- but not insurmountable. A possibility occurred to him, a convoluted one that would rely on many elements coming together at the right moment. Even then, he shirked away from the final prospect of doing what would be necessary for those elements to come together. It would involve thowing away a bishop to take a rook, and he had no wish to do that unless he was absolutely sure it was necessary. The rook in question could lead to his eliminating a threat, but he was not sure that threat was worth the price of the bishop.

But he had always known that at some point, the bishop would have to go.

Light drove back to the hotel, his mind in a whir of activity.

Mikami arrived at the hotel two days later, looking disshelved and rather weary. Air travel had evidently not agreed with him, and he did not say a word to Light during the taxi ride from the airport to Bertram's. As soon as he got to the hotel, he collapsed into the desk. His notebook was in hand, but he looked anything but ready for work.

"Wait," Light said quickly. "Sleep first. You'll do no good if you aren't alert. After you've rested, I have a job for you that will require all your attention. You've written several names in the notebook in advance as I instructed, haven't you?"

'Yes. I've written for the next four weeks."

"And you're certain that you know how to write the English names?"

"Yes."

"Good. I've taken steps to make sure that you won't have to deal the police here, explained that you're working with me. You're going to have to stop by their office to get some official forms, but it's a formality. We'll go later today. When that's done, I want you to watch outside Wammy's House, every day."

Mikami looked less than enthused, but he also looked too tired to argue. He stumbled wearily off to his room without argument. Light smiled as he departed and then dialed his new contact at Scotland Yard. "Hello? I'm going to need to have some of the files on criminals that were local to Winchester from... I think 1995. It has to do with the methods of my- what's the word- prepossessor? No, predecessor, that's it. Thank you for your help."

He hung up and turned back to the notebook, which Mikami had left on the desk. Behind him, Ryuk cleared his throat. "Hey, Light. I'm going to need more apples soon. It's getting hard not do handstands after a few days without them."

Light suppressed an annoyed sigh with difficulty. "I'll be leaving for the police station in a few minutes. On the way back, I'll pick some up."

He glowered at the Shinigami, who merely chuckled. "So what was all that about?" he asked. "The 1995 cut-off year?"

"I'm not sure how old L was at the time of his death, but I think it's safe to say he wasn't much older than me. I need to know how he might have gotten started on his detective career, and to do that I'm going to have to find cases that they might assign a child to test his ability. That might give me some contacts who could put me in touch with Wammy's House."

Ryuk gave him a shrewd glance. "So why couldn't Mikami hear that?"

Light smiled, but did not answer. He grabbed his room key and descended to the spacious front lobby. Gliding past a bevy of old women with leather suitcases, he quickly passed through one of the large double doors. The concierge gave him a friendly nod and Light acknowledged the gesture with cool politeness. He headed for the curb, and then doubled back quickly, as if remembering something he'd forgotten.

"I am sorry," he said haltingly to the concierge, who inclined an ear towards him. "But I have a friend who may stop by later today and I had to leave suddenly. If she comes, could you tell her to wait for me. Her name is Linda Grey. Thank you so much." He beamed at the man and quickly ducked into the nearest cab before the man could say anything. Looking back, he saw the man duck quickly into the hotel and head to the front desk. So the message would be delivered. The odds that Linda would come to Bertram's was low, and the odds of her being stupid enough to give her name were almost non-existent, but it was always worth a shot, and given her slap-dash methods, there was a remote chance of it working.

Ryuk was especially irritating in the taxi ride to the station, constantly pointing out places where apples were likely to be, even if Light knew that that was not the case. After the shinigami realized no answers were forthcoming, he resumed his questions. "So again, why couldn't Mikami be around for this?"

"He's jetlagged," Light replied. "And I'm going to need him alert for what he'll have to do."

"And what is that?"

"Long hours of watching. What follows will depend on what he sees and how good he proves at the job."

Ryuk shrugged and began to scan the streets again. Light hoped his relief at the silence was not too obvious. It would be some hours before nightfall, time enough for Mikami to recover from his exhaustion and time enough for Light to call and give him orders.

In the meantime, he had the development of a detective to study.

When he reached the station, there was an air of subdued quiet, but business was proceeding as usual. Some of the older inspectors were moving about with a dazed air, and Light did his best to convey sympathy in his greetings. He was unsurprised when the chief inspector summoned him to a private meeting to explain what had happened to Allen.

"I'm so sorry," he said. He had to be sure not to overdo his sympathy, since he had barely known the man. "He seemed like a decent person."

"He was a good officer," the inspector agreed. "Was actually about to move back to a desk job, since he was getting old. That might have been why he fell. Poor man."

"Is there anything you need me to do, inspector?"

He fixed Light with a surprisingly sharp stare. "Is there any possibility, at all, that this had something to do with Kira?"

Light was surprised by this question, since he had taken pains to make sure that Kira's ability to kill aside from heart attacks reached English police. But it was possible that the inspector had heard whispers of other Kira-related deaths, and on the whole, it was not a surprising question. "It's remotely possible, but I honestly don't know what reason Kira would have to kill Allen. Unless- was Allen investigating Kira on his own?"

"No," the inspector said hurriedly. "I don't know how much Interpol told you about how our country's been handling the deaths, but unless we have evidence of wrongdoing, we can't proceed with an investigation. There's something of an understanding of what's happening, but there's not much we can do other than label the deaths heart attacks. We would have been severely reprimanded for opening an investigation into heart attacks." He pinched his lower lip between his dark fingers. "It would have been seen as taking a side."

"Now is the time for taking sides, Inspector," Light replied. "Kira is concentrating on your country, attacking your people. You can either stand by or stand against him. The second choice would be dangerous- I know that. But it's a question of the right thing to do."

The inspector paced back and forth, rubbing his chin helplessly. Finally he faced Light. "I can't launch anything official. But if some of my detectives have free time- you're welcome to ask for their help."

"Thank you, sir."

He went back into headquarters.


	14. Chapter 14

**Well- yeah, I'm not dead. My only excuse can be summed in the words '1 hour 20 minute commute'. From home and back. Five days a week. I'm really sorry about the delay. And how out of it I've been. I'm trying to catch up on all my writing projects, but it's slow going. Again, I'm really sorry about how long this took me, and if I've been following a story of anyone's, I'll hopefully get to the updates sometime today. **

**ETA: I realized on rereads of the earlier chapters that I've made kind of a hash of the geography, and for that I'm sorry. I don't really have time to go back and fix it now- I may later, but for now, just assume Linda lives in the London area. **

**I do not own _Death Note_.**

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><p>Linda did not realize until three in the morning that she had forgotten to take her set piece sketches to the theater. Calling to explain was out of the question, so she finally opted for another lie. She texted Dave, telling him that she had contracted a stomach flu, missed an appointment, and needed someone to drop off a series of sketches first thing in the morning. He did not keep late hours, but the late text might lend some credence to the fiction that she had been throwing up since late afternoon.<p>

She threw the phone on the sofa and resumed pacing back and forth. She did feel sick, and the movement helped distract her from the tossing of her stomach. The rhythmic walking also helped relieve some of the nervous terror that was coursing through her limbs and trying to force screams through her throat. She wanted to throw things at the walls, kick chairs across the room, and bury her head in a blanket and wail like a child.

None of that was an option now.

"Think," she whispered at last. "Think. Light knows you're here, knew enough to ask about your name. And Allen died. If he caused that death, and it's way too convenient to have been a coincidence so I think he did, he could have arranged for Allen to ask for Roger to get me there specifically. If he did that, that means he knew about me before he even came here." She sank against the kitchen cabinet and buried her face in her hands. "I'm screwed," she whispered over and again. "I'm screwed. And I'm going to die."

Her limbs were shaking so badly that she could barely stand, but she finally forced herself upright and moved to make herself coffee. The movements gave her something to focus on other than her close encounter with death, and while the stuff bubbled and poured into the glass pitcher, she took deep breaths. By the time the coffee was ready, she felt calmer. By her first sip, her trembling had stopped. Her eyes grew hard and her mouth set in a grim line.

"I know where he's staying," she said quietly. "And I know that unless he sees my face, he can't touch me. Even if he knows my name, it'll do him no good unless he finds out what I look like. And it has to be a photograph, because when he asked for help dealing with Mello and Near, he couldn't kill them on what I gave him, and those drawings were pretty damn good. So as long as neither he nor Mikami meets me in person- they can't touch me."

She took a long sip of the coffee, and though it was bitter and practically boiled her lips, it cleared her head all the more. "The notebooks are the key," she murmured and began to pace back and forth between the living area and the kitchenette. "Without the notebooks, they lose everything. There's no way Mikami and Light didn't bring their notebooks- or- oh, hell, was it notebook?"

She ran back to her desk, which contained the scattered notes of everything she had noted from the file, but could not see anything pertaining to the number of notebooks. At that, she groaned and threw the papers across the room. They scattered softly to the floor, hardly in any less disorder than they had been in before, but at least the gesture made her feel better.

She sank down on the couch, clutching the coffee. She was going to have to go back to Roger for the file to find out for certain how many notebooks she had to account for, and that meeting was going to be anything but pleasant. She was almost certain that it was two, one from the shinigami Light had tricked and the one that had launched the controversy in the first place But in the meantime, she had options. The first one was to seek out Light's hotel and try to find out which rooms he and Mikami maintained. Then she would have to figure out how to access those rooms discretely, steal the notebook or notebooks, and destroy them.

"Or…" She stood slowly and began pacing again. "If I got the notebooks, I'd have evidence. Problem is that England doesn't acknowledge Kira. But Japan does. If I could get those notebooks and alert the Japanese authorities, they would arrest Light, I'm almost certain of it. Japan has been treating Kira as a criminal from the beginning. If I could get the notebooks to the right people, they'd arrest him for sure. I'd just have to find a way to do that without Light finding out until the handcuffs are on him."

She sank back onto the couch, flipping her phone open and shut under her chin. Her eyes felt impossibly heavy, and her limbs as though they had been cast in lead. Her brain still was buzzing from the coffee, however, and suddenly the answer to her dilemma came to her. Go to the hotel, find out where Light and Mikami's rooms were, and steal the notebooks when they were not there.

Put that way, the solution was simple. The execution of that solution would be another matter entirely. She closed her eyes, hoping to clear her mind. Within seconds, sleep had taken her.

A sharp knocking woke her, and she fell off the narrow couch with a thud. Chilly sunlight was streaming in through the window. Her phone's battery symbol was flashing, but it told her the time was 8:30. There were two texts from Dave, and a third came before she even had a chance to open the third. "Coming!" she called, and fumbled around her desk for the large envelope containing the theater's sketches.

Dave had a concerned look on his face when she finally opened the door. "You okay?" he asked. His eyes were bleary and his curly brown hair looked almost as rumpled as hers felt. Guiltily she wondered if she'd taken his morning to sleep in.

"A bit better," she said, and felt a wretched twinge of guilt over putting a scratchy edge to her voice. "Not great. I don't know if I'll be able to do dinner tonight. I'm really sorry."

"You look like you need to sleep. But you have an art class today, don't you?"

"I have two." She passed a hand over her forehead. "Shit. I forgot about that. I should probably call them." She made her way slowly back into the apartment, feeling horribly light-headed. The whole room seemed to sway and tip dangerously, and if Dave had not caught her arm, she would have certainly fallen.

"Thanks," she murmured as he guided her to the couch. Perhaps she was getting ill. Or perhaps it was that she had not eaten in several hours. Either one was a possible cause. Between her wretched sleeping schedule and her work and her secrets, she felt anything but healthy.

Closing her eyes, she let her head rest against Dave's shoulder. His coat was still cold, the smooth fabric a refreshing presence on her skin. Suddenly she did not want him to go. She wanted to forget Kira, forget Light Yagami, forget murder and heart attacks and notebooks, and curl up against him and sleep. She wanted to be a normal, if poor, young artist making a thin living.

And she knew that as badly as she wanted that, she had tossed it away when she had strung her banner on Tower Bridge.

She straightened with an effort and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Sorry about the mess," she said, barely remembering to keep her voice rough. "And thanks so much for taking the sketches. It means a lot. You've got the address of the theater, right?"

"I pass it every day to get to work, don't worry." He shifted, somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to Linda. "I probably should drop those off, shouldn't I? Do you want me to check in on you later today?"

"I don't know," she said. "I think I'm on the upswing, but it's hard to say. Tell you what, I'll text you by four if I still feel rotten, but if you don't hear anything, assume I'm doing okay."

He nodded and reached down to grab a blanket. After dropping it awkwardly over her shoulders, he headed for the door. "Okay, well- I'll go drop these off. Don't forget to call whoever the people are for your classes to let them know you're feeling poorly."

"Right, I won't forget."

She waved and groaned after the door had closed behind him. "I won't forget," she murmured. "But not for the reason you think. Hell, Dave, I have to end this, I can't keep doing this to you. But you're sweet and you're normal. Hell." She pulled out her phone, and dialed the coordinator for the arts at the youth center. The woman was immediately sympathetic and urged her to stay home and get some rest.

An hour later, she was at Bertram's hotel.

It was a warm bustling place, filled with the squeaking wheels of suitcases, the chatter of guests, and the clatter of footsteps. The staff were almost unnaturally friendly, and a clerk at the front desk noticed Linda standing in the middle of the lobby.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely.

Linda tried not to look as though she'd been caught making off with a handbag. "I- um. Actually…" her voice trailed off as a possible lie occurred to her. She stared at the floor for a moment and then made up her mind. "I- oh, this is so embarrassing. I'm- um- I was supposed to meet someone here. He told me this was where he was staying and I don't know… maybe I…"

She trailed off, feeling wretched at the look of sympathy that flashed across the woman's face. The clerk did not look much older than Linda herself. "Oh, honey. I can check and see if he's on the register. What's the name?"

"Light," Linda whispered, trying to sound miserable and embarrassed. She tried to recall her reactions when she had been stood up at a seedy theater as a sixteen-year-old. "I- know it's stupid. Light Yagami. I- oh, this is so bad. I'm so sorry. I should go."

"Honey, hang on! Don't give up!" The woman gave her a friendly smile. "Yagami sounds foreign, so he might just be crashed and jetlagged. Let me check." She began to type in a businesslike way and squinted at her computer. "Look at that! He's registered. Do you want me to call him?"

Linda felt the beginnings of a headache, but she smiled and tried to make it as artificial and uncertain as she could. "I don't know... I- it might have been just a one-time thing, but I thought maybe he would call me… I guess- it wouldn't hurt to see if he's there."

She wondered what on earth she would do if he was in his room.

Luckily the clerk set down the phone after a few minutes. "He's not answering, I'm afraid. But he might be asleep, from the name I'd suggest he was Japanese." She took a quick look around, which confirmed to Linda that she was not supposed to do what she was doing. "He's on the fourth floor, sweetheart, room number two," the clerk said softly. "Don't worry about it if he turns out awful, there's plenty of other fish in the sea."

Linda grinned a little, feeling a curious mix of shame and triumph. "I'll remember. Thanks so much." She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair as if in an effort to clean up her appearance. "Wish me luck, I'll need it."

The clerk smiled. "Of course."

For appearances sake, Linda made a quick dash to the restroom and made an effort to smooth out her rumpled look. Then she went to the fourth floor.

The wallpaper of the hall was lined with white paper sprinkled with blue and purple flowers, and the carpet was a creamy ivory. Linda wondered idly about how much work it must take to keep such a light color clean. She walked slowly. In the middle of the day, the hall was mostly deserted, though there was a housekeeping cart outside one of the doors on the left side of the wall. The doors were numbered alternately, with odd numbers on the right side, and even doors on the left. Linda strolled idly past the housekeeping cart, as it moved from Room Number 6 to Room Number 4. The woman knocked, and a low grumbling voice answered. Linda kept walking, but tried to slow her pace unobtrusively.

"I'll come back in a few hours then, all right?" the maid said after a brief exchange.

Linda glanced over her shoulder to see the cart moving forward to Room Number 2. First came the knock, then the housekeeping call. Then Linda heard a sound that made her heart jump: the room key clicking and the door opening. That meant that Light was not in his room. And it meant that the door would be open.

She halted in her tracks, trying to kickstart her brain. If L had been in her position, he would been able to find a way to get into Room Number 2 without breaking a sweat. Of that she was sure. Though admittedly he would likely have cited his Interpol status as a reason to give him entry. However trying that would be a bad idea, given Light's connections. She stared at the tantalizing open doorway for a moment.

As she waited, a door immediately across the hallway opened. A tall young man wearing perfectly creased jeans and a jacket came out. His long dark hair hung to the side of his face. He was holding the door open with one foot, patting his pockets one by one as if he was checking an inventory. As he did, he straightened up and his hair fell back a little, allowing Linda to see his profile. Her breath stuck in her throat. It was Teru Mikami.

She turned around and strode around the corner at the end of the hall, her hands trembling. If Mikami saw her, he would see her name, Near's files had been quite clear on that point. And though he could not do anything to her unless he saw her face, she knew that was no protection here. All he would have to do was see her and catch her arm.

While her heart was racing, she suddenly heard his voice. Carefully, she peered around the corner. Mikami was standing opposite Light's room, gesturing to something on a card that Linda could not see. The maid was in the doorway, and Linda could hear her trying to explain to him something about what the front desk could do.

She almost dared to hope that the maid would leave the room to help Mikami with whatever his problem was, but she had no such luck. Mikami eventually made his way to the elevators. He looked much less terrifying than the flame-eyed fanatic Linda had been expecting; indeed, he looked exhausted and much older than the age Linda knew him to be. From Near's notes, she knew that he was a compulsively neat dresser, and yet he was clad like a workman. Or rather, she corrected herself, how a wealthy person would expect a workman to dress.

It was not what she had been expecting, but she knew better than to assume him weak or any less of a threat. But she now knew exactly where he and Light were staying. And if the compulsively neat Teru Mikami was about to go out in public dressed in jeans and a winter jacket, she would have to know why.

She ran down the stairs after he reached the elevator, and caught sight of him brushing out the front door of Bertram's. She walked briskly after him, luckily avoiding the helpful clerk, who was busy with a harried-looking family. By the time she reached the door, Mikami was getting into a taxi. The concierge was shutting the door, but Linda heard him say to the driver, "Please take this gentleman to Waterloo station."

Without hesitation, she jumped into the next taxi and followed.

She almost lost him at the entrance, but discovered him buying a 10:35 ticket to Winchester. Inwardly groaning at what this expedition would do to her bank account, she did the same.

It did not occur to her until the train was chugging out of the city that she should have taken better precautions against being observed. After all, Mikami and Light had been paranoid enough to fool an FBI man and Near himself. And if he was a criminal lawyer, he would be quite familiar with procedures used for tailing suspects; he would have had to answer questions about them in court often enough.

She stole glances at him during the ride, but he looked as though he was utterly lost in his thoughts. Now that she could see him in the confines of the car, he looked positively ill, as if something was inwardly gnawing at him. His eyes never left the window, but he sat almost unnaturally still. With eyes that troubled, he ought to have been tapping his fingers, shifting in his seat, or reading a sinister notebook. Yet he was utterly motionless.

Once they arrived, she held back a little, waiting to see what he would do. He stood in the station for some time, looking utterly lost and squinting at various signs. Linda wondered more than ever if Light knew just how out of his depth Mikami was. She did not believe for a moment that Light would send a shoddy servant for any task he deemed important, and it made her wonder if the lawyer had fallen from his chosen god's favor.

After a minute or two, he gestured for another taxi. Linda held back a scream of frustration. Her rent would be due in a few weeks, and with this doubtful sick day she would be living wretchedly close to the bone. But her heart stopped cold when he told the driver to go to Wammy's House.

Head spinning, she went to the nearest bus station as the taxi pulled away. She pulled out her phone and dialed Roger's personal number. But the phone died in mid-dial, and she wanted to scream. She cursed violently to herself instead, attracting a scandalized stare from a sweet-looking older man across the aisle from her.

The bus pulled up a few blocks away from the orphanage, and Linda darted out. She was no runner and her sprinting attempt died after only a few blocks, but she walked as fast as she could. A stitch gathered in her side. By the time she reached the right street corner, she was almost doubled over.

She realized only a few seconds later how lucky she was that that was the case. Across the street, Mikami was sitting on a bench hunched over a laptop. He looked completely chilled and miserable. A black notebook was by his side. As Linda watched, a car pulled up to the gates. Mikami immediately jerked upright, squinted at it, and started typing. His hand moved towards the notebook. Then he seemed to hesitate, and went back to the computer.

Linda flattened herself against the wall, her heart pounding. She could not imagine why Teru Mikami would be watching the entrance to Wammy's house. But she was sure it was for nothing good. He had a death note at his side. Of that she was certain. And if she made any move to approach him, he would be able to write her name long before she could reach him.

She leaned against the cold stone bricks that shielded Wammy's House, resisting the urge to throw her useless phone at Mikami's head.

After some hours, it became clear that Mikami was not going to leave. Linda made several trips back and forth around the block, always taking care to turn away before Mikami could see her. At last on what felt the hundredth circuit of the place, she thought to go through her pockets. She had only a handful of loose change, but it was enough for one pay phone call. And due to being raised at Wammy's House, she knew the number to the police station by heart.

She went to the nearest phone box. One anonymous tip later and she had the satisfaction of seeing a police car pull up in front of Mikami's bench. When a burly police officer got out and barked out several questions, she had to smile, especially when the man rather forcibly made sure Mikami was installed in the back of his car. Deeply relieved, she set back on the long weary walk back to the bus stop, and prayed she had enough money for the train.


	15. Chapter 15

***obscenity-laden rant about school here* *obscenity-laden rant about work here* *obscenity-laden rant about finals here***

**I'm so sorry, guys. Real life can be a bear to deal with. I'm hoping to finish this story by February of next year at the latest; we're getting closer to endgame now and I can't stand the thought of a story with only twenty or so chapters taking me more than two years. If you're even still reading at this point, despite all my delays and "Did Not Do The Research" gaffes, I owe you hugs and presents. Thank you so much for your patience.  
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**Quick recap, Light is throwing smoke in the eyes of the British police force while trying to figure out how to deal with Linda; Linda has just called the police on Mikami for being creepy outside Wammy's, and both of them are realizing that this rivalry is not what they were expecting. **

**I don't own Death Note.**

* * *

><p>"These are the files you requested, Mr. Yagami. Winchester area, 1995 and onwards. Anything else you need?"<p>

Light glanced at the gigantic box of papers. Every murder in Winchester and the surrounding counties was in that box, and the folder on top contained every case that had been referred to outside consultation within his specified timeframe. Going through these would take hours. He had to meet with the chief inspector by the end of the day, and he had no doubt that the man would politely hint that he finish up his business and go back to where he came from.

He could use the death note to prevent that, but his first goal was to track and eliminate Roger and Linda.

For now, he hoped Mikami might be able to dispose of them. He did not know if Linda still lived at Wammy's House, but it seemed likely she and Roger were in contact. Perhaps Linda, as a younger and more able-bodied person, acted on the reclusive caretaker's orders. Light had sent Mikami with orders to watch the house, and pay attention to those who entered. However he had made it clear that the lawyer was not to write any name in the death note until he had called Light first.

He sat down at the empty desk and double-checked that the door was closed before opening the folder with cases files. Immediately he dismissed the first five, since the outside consultants were established detectives. He made sure to check the names online, but as he could tell, they had no discernible ties to Wammy's.

There were a few files in which the names of the outside consulting parties had been blacked out or left blank. One he eliminated, since it had had to do with an underground terrorist organization that had struck near Winchester. It was unlikely such a case would be used to test a child, even a child studying for the position of L. He set the case aside and focused on the other files. There were three cases with unlisted outside consultants: two murders and one case of insurance fraud.

A close look at the insurance fraud revealed that there had been a consultant named Julian Farrowton, whose name was missing in the initial summary due to an error. That one could be set aside. The murders were all that remained.

What immediately struck Light was that none of the cases mentioned the name of their outside detective. There was no record of payment. Each file had a notation of 'outside consultant,' and that was all. Moreover, though the murders had taken place six weeks apart, the cases had been filed on the exact same day.

He noted the names of the two detectives who had worked the cases. One was James W. Allen, and again Light cursed himself for wasting a potential resource. The other was a man named Thomas Carter. Light made a note of his home address and phone number. Then he closed the search and turned his attention to the box of files. They were likely unnecessary, but he wanted to be thorough.

Several hours later, he reached the bottom of the files, and had found something very interesting. All in all, there were seven cases, six of which had been cold cases and one of which had been a complete mystery. All had been solved within days of their referral to a nameless outside consultant, and all of them had been overseen by Thomas Carter.

A knock on the door startled him, but it was merely the chief inspector, Felix Temple. He was tall and thin with dark skin and silver hair. There was an air of weariness about him and an appraising look in his eyes that Light did not quite like.

"May I sit down?" he asked.

Light nodded and immediately gave him a smile. "Certainly. I do hope I'm not imposing on your time, and Director- or no, that's not right, it's inspector, isn't it- I wanted to say thank you for your help."

Chief Inspector Temple merely inclined his head with the faintest hint of a smile. "It's no trouble. I'm glad you're finding us helpful."

Something in Temple's guarded expression made Light wish he was gone. The inspector's quiet tone reminded him too much of the way L would talk- seemingly innocuous, but filled with knowledge and mockery.

But he told himself to stay calm. Projecting L's face onto every person who stood in his way was a sure path to disaster. He had assumed the same of Linda, only to discover an overgrown child playing at a role that should have gone to someone better.

Then the inspector said something that jolted him. "Oh, I almost forgot why I came in. A young Japanese lawyer was taken in for loitering outside an orphanage in Winchester. He said he knew you. Or at any rate he kept giving your name as the person who should know about his arrest. They aren't going to press charges- he seems to have been lost and there's no crime for that. He was released a few minutes ago, and he's heading back to the city now. Still, I thought you ought to know. He gave his name as Teru Mikami."

Without a backward glance, he left the room. Light was rooted to the spot. He clenched a pen in his hand until the plastic casing cracked, but otherwise his face was immobile. The hum of the computer filled the tiny office room.

"You fool," he whispered at last. A dry chuckle came from the corner, and Light fought down the temptation to throw the broken pen at the shinigami. He took the pen in both hands and crushed it until plastic splinters fell from his fingers. He could not recall the last time he had felt so angry. "Mikami, you fool," he repeated and bent to pick up the shards.

"So what does this mean for you and your plans, Light?"

There was a kind of measured glee in the shinigami's voice. Light looked at him, but Ryuk's face was the same skull-like mask it had always been. The bulging eyes betrayed nothing.

Two could play at that, Light decided. He let a tiny smile play over his face, but said nothing. Mikami would have be eliminated now, and England was as good a place to cause the death as any. No one alive in Japan knew about Mikami's connection to Light. But he had become yet another thread that Light would have to take care of.

He sat back down and began to clean the shards of plastic off the top of the desk. Some of the fragments had gotten into the folder, and a few of the mug shot images were scratched. He sighed and brushed the plastic away as carefully as possible. Then he froze, mug-shot photo still in hand.

All he had to do was cripple his opposition. If he was able to cripple Linda in the right way, he might even be able to get her face in the public eye.

A smile began to spread on his face. He gathered up all the relevant materials he could and double-checked Carter's address. Any information the man had about Roger Ruvie could prove invaluable. And if the experiment he had in mind proved successful, it would eliminate the problem of Mikami, the vague threat of the caretaker, and the blundering pursuit of Linda.

Outside, a brilliant blue sky offered a sharp contrast to the damp city. Winter and spring were clearly at war, and the resulting weather was unpleasant. However Light knew he did not have to walk far in it. A twenty minute taxi ride took him to the house of Thomas Carter.

Light took a moment to write the taxi driver's name on the back of an old receipt. Then he paid the man and told him to wait outside the house. "I should be back in a few minutes," he said. "Please, if you can, stay here until I return."

The man gave a grunt that Light took to mean assent. He went up to the house. It was a pleasant little building that fit well on this small street. On the porch was a little rocker that was no doubt quite comfortable in warmer months. A window box with wrinkled plants lay on the sill of the front window.

Light rang the doorbell. He could see a little into the hall, which was painted blue and contained a worn red rug that was patterned to look like layered bricks. Leaning away from the door, he knocked briskly.

An old man came into view of the window from the left. He walked with a slow shuffle and a gentle smile that lit up when he opened the door. "I got Temple's message- you're the Japanese visitor, aren't you?"

Light nodded and held out a hand. "I'm sorry to have to interrupt you at home." He slipped inside. "We're trying to catch someone who may be very dangerous, and we think he might have links to someone who worked with the police in the past. I was told you had worked on some of the cases that might be relevant."

"Well… now, that was a long time ago, you know." Carter's voice sounded far away, and he was staring at a corner of the ceiling with particular intensity. "Yes, it's been perhaps ten, maybe more years, since I was last in the force. Or is twelve? Hard to say. But I might be able to help you. What is it you need?"

He made a sweeping motion toward the living room to the left of the front door. Light followed him into the room and taking out the case files that bore Carter's name. "I know these were several years ago, and that you retired very soon after they were completed. But these cases- I believe that they might contain information I need, and I was wondering if you could tell me more about them."

He handed the files to the old man and watched his face closely. Carter's thick white eyebrows wrinkled as he read the files. His face remained unchanged, but Light thought he detected a certain wariness in the man's body language. Carter's hands, which had been trembling slightly now became very still, as if he was concentrating hard on keeping them steady. His head was now inclined forward and focused with great intensity on the names. In his face, Light could see traces of the photograph that had been in the police database, but age had caught up with Carter.

Light waited for the old man to finish reading. While he did so, he took out the death note and the receipt on which he had scribbled the cab driver's name. Periodically he checked his watch.

At last Carter finished flipping through the files. "I remember," he said with an air of triumph. "They were a bit odd, these. I got the order that I was supposed to turn these over to a liaison for a private detective agency, but the funny thing was that normally the chief inspector hated private detectives. Couldn't stand them. I remember one time he went on and on about how they were preying on people and spreading rumors about the police, and he did that in a meeting with the Commissioner whose daughter had just gotten her private detective's license…"

Carter rambled on this way for a few more minutes and Light had to gently lead him back to his initial topic. When he got Carter to remember what he was there for, the man seemed a bit bewildered. "Oh, those cases? I didn't know much about them. All I know is that the man who gave them to me was named Roger. Or was it Rogers? I don't know…was it his first or last name? Anyway, he was the one I always talked to. He said that his detective worked best in private. I don't know… what did you say wanted to talk about? I'm not sure I quite understand…"

"I'm trying to find as much information about this detective as I can, sir," Light said soothingly. "You don't mind if I take a few notes, do you? I'm trying to get a clear picture. Can you talk to me about how this person chose the cases?"

"Well you know, it's funny you mention that. Rogers asked me to pick cases that were for a beginner but he wanted them to be puzzle-like. Something that would take a while to pick apart. I gave him what I could."

Light checked his watch again. The time was 4:35. He took out his pen and slipped the receipt with the cab driver's name into the center divide of the notebook.

Carter showed no sign of interest. He was staring at the ceiling again, and Light wondered if this was a trick of his when he was trying to concentrate. "Yeah, he wanted something that would pose a good puzzle. Said that his boss wanted a challenge. So I tried my best. I went through the cases- at the time I was mostly a paper pusher, you understand- and I picked out a couple I thought were good puzzle-type cases. Two suspects in each one. In one case, they both had motive and alibis, in the other they had no alibis and no motive. Difficult ones. Rogers said they were great and he took the info and gave them to his boss."

Light hunched over the notebook and made a pretense of writing. "Did you ever do any further work on those cases?"

"No. I was left to wait for his boss to solve those cases," Carter went on. His voice was not loud, but it seemed to fill the room. Light suddenly had an image of a younger Carter, with hair that was grey instead of white and hands that were steady, only a few years removed from harder labor than paper pushing. He made a show of writing some more.

Carter waited for him to stop before continuing. "At the time it seemed puzzling, but I didn't really mind. Those cases… one had gone cold and the other was just a nightmare to look at. Not much evidence, not much help, no real witnesses. There wasn't anything concrete. Two days later, both were returned and solved with enough pointers that we could make an arrest."

He looked at Light for a moment, his eyes mild. "Strange, Rogers was. But he did his job. His boss did, anyway. Whoever that person was, he was a good thinker."

Light nodded. "I don't suppose you could describe this person for me, could you? We- his boss may be able to shed some light on a current investigation, if he's still around."

"Oh, Rogers, you mean? You know… I was suspicious of him for a while. So one day I came to our meeting point- we always met at a public place, like a restaurant or a bar or something, you understand- I came early and I took some pictures of him. If that would help you- I can probably find it. It's in my files upstairs, with the photographs, of course." He chuckled. "Amazing that I thought of that. I never took pictures of anything that wasn't at a crime scene. How about that."

Light found it difficult to contain a burst of triumphant laughter. The stars truly were aligning for him now. Not only did he have a photograph within reach, but he had two men who were ideal to test the elimination plan he had in mind for his true foes.

He immediately gave Carter a look of polite interest, and asked about how Carter had been able to take the picture without Roger seeing him. While the old man explained his photographic process, Light began to write: _Thomas Carter dies at 4:45 on March 1__st__ of a stab wound from a stranger who had broken into his house. Bleeds out within in minutes before he can call for help. _

Then he took careful note of the cab driver's name, which was Benjamin Rivanti. After writing down the name and the time of death for 4:50, he quickly wrote the details for what exactly the man would do just minutes before his own death by suicide.

Once he had expressed appreciation for the photograph, he asked if he could use the washroom before Carter collected the image. The old man pointed him down the hall to a tiny bathroom that was tucked under the stairs. Light ducked inside and locked the door.

He knew that his remaining in the house for this experiment was a risk, and yet it was a risk he felt he had to take. The death note's rules could be bent, but if his plan backfired, he wanted to know it immediately so he could concoct another.

And then there was the matter of the photograph. His hopes for taking down both Linda and Roger hinged upon him obtaining a clear image of at least one of their faces. Light had been counting on Mikami to get a good look at Roger's face, but with the fool's arrest outside the orphanage, that possibility was gone for good. But a photograph was the godsend he needed- provided that his experiment with the Death Note worked.

Try as he might, he could not shake a cold feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach. Neither Benjamin Rivanti nor Thomas Carter were guilty of anything, as far as he knew. Yet if his experiment was successful, both were about to die.

He knew that Ryuk was waiting outside, hovering in the hall to watch the fun. The shinigami had been watching every word written on the notebook, and Light had no doubt that he wanted to see the outcome.

For the first time in many years, he felt distaste for what he was doing. These deaths were necessary; he had to know if this kind of writing with the Death Note was possible, even for complete strangers. If it was, he could eliminate three major threats with one move. It would not be quite a checkmate, but it would be a significant victory.

Yet he recalled how swiftly he had written Carter and Rivanti's names. There had been no thought of whether or not their deaths were necessary. They were certainly convenient. But then again, Carter had some kind of knowledge of Roger. If Carter had taken photographs of Roger, he might have kept other materials. The man was old and likely to die soon regardless, and if the wrong people, such as Inspector Temple, came looking, they might start looking into the strange cases. That could lead to the department discovering its old relationship with L and it could lead to a steady unravelling of everything Light had built.

Yet he could not shake the feeling that by writing down the names of the patient cab driver and the talkative old man, he had crossed a line that he could never again retread.

He heard the front door open, and kept very still. Quick footsteps walked past him to the kitchen. Drawers opened and shut in a series of clacks. Then there was the shrill whisper of metal rubbing against something hard.

Carter's bewildered voice floated down the hallway. "Who's there? Mr. Yagami, is that you?"

The footsteps came back swiftly. Then there was a sound that Light could not quite describe. It contained the tearing of fabric and the sound of a blade leaving an irreparable wound and he could not find words for that. This death was caused by the Death Note and yet it felt infinitely worse to hear the thud of a crumpled body and the dying moan of an old man who had had no reason to foresee this kind of death.

Moments later, there was another thud of a body collapsing.

After what seemed ages, Light opened the bathroom door. Ryuk was hovering in the hall by the entrance to the living room, his bulging eyes as eager and repulsive as ever.

The cab driver, Benjamin Rivanti, was kneeling on the carpet. Red had seeped from the crumpled form that lay on the floor between Rivanti and the armchair in which Carter had been sitting. Rivanti was staring at the man without speaking, his eyes wide. He looked like a dead man, despite the rattle of his heavy breathing.

Slowly his eyes turned to Light's. "I don't know," came from between his lips. The words sounded as if they were coming from a robot. "I don't know why I did that. I don't know. I don't know."

Light willed himself to look at the bodies. This was his handiwork and hiding from that was a coward's move, unfit for one who called himself a god. He could look at the broken body on the ground. And he could watch when Benjamin Rivanti cut his own throat with a shaking hand at precisely 4:50.

It was not until he stumbled at the top step that Light realized he had rushed up the stairs after seeing the second man die. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to stay calm. Ryuk was cackling just behind him, but Light knew that he did not have the mental restraint to deal with the shinigami now. Instead he concentrated on finding where Carter kept his photographs. Two of the upstairs rooms contained beds, but at the end of the hall was a little room with a desk and several bookshelves. A filing cabinet stood beside the open door. He went to that room and began his search.

When he found the images in a folder stuffed so thick that they were spilling out of every side, he almost gave up and left. He would have to go soon; a cab with no driver would attract suspicion if left alone for too long. But when he examined the photographs more closely, he realized that Carter had noted the date on all his images.

Ten minutes later, he discovered what he was looking for. Three photographs, all taken in a pub and with no clear relation to police work that he could see. They were dated some months after the cases had been filed and depicted a tall man with greying hair, a long hooked nose, and square glasses that accentuated the severity of his face.

He searched every other photograph, but all the images were photos taken from crime scenes. To be absolutely certain, Light checked every file Carter possessed, making sure to put on his gloves and keep the files in order. There were no other photographs. This image had to be Roger Ruvie, and that was all that he needed. Now was the time to plan his attack. Then his Death Note could be used for its true work- the reshaping of the world.

Those thoughts filled Light's head as he went back downstairs. Yet he shuddered as he passed the bodies in the formerly pleasant living room. As he drove away the stolen taxi to abandon it in an empty lot, he could not shake the feeling that he had turned his back on humanity forever. The only way to make that turning worthwhile was to ascend to godhood. Now only three humans stood in the way of that goal.


	16. Chapter 16

**A month between updates. Ugh. Baby steps, I guess. I'm hoping to finish this by the end of February. We'll see how things go. **

**Also, a review reminded me of something I should have mentioned last chapter- Light's version of killing the two men there is taken from the live-action films. It's something from the live-action films, and I thought it was a brilliant, if brutal, way of using the death note for murder.**

**I don't own Death Note.**

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><p>"Look, all I'm saying is- every time I see you, you look like you haven't slept. It's okay to take a break every now and then."<p>

Linda drove her hair out of her eyes and glowered into the cup of tea that Dave had gotten her from the corner shop. They were crammed on his narrow couch, trying to keep some semblance of warmth. March had begun sneak insidiously into the skies, but the air was still brutally cold. This necessitated huddling in blankets and coats, so it was hardly as romantic as couch cuddling ought to be, at least in Linda's view.

"Linda, are you okay?"

She tried to tack a smile on her face. It felt even more artificial than usual. "I'm fine. But you're- well, yeah, you're right about my schedule. It's been crazy."

The lie tasted sour on her lips. Teaching, the calling she had seen as her solace after graduating from Wammy's, no longer held any relief for her. The art classes had felt like a solace in the first days after her stringing up the banner, but now every second spent away from the problem of Light felt like a waste.

Her plan was to find a time when neither he nor Mikami was at Bertram's Hotel, get into their rooms, and steal the notebooks. Then, with Roger's help, she could present that information to the police and Interpol. As adamant Roger was that she not involve herself any deeper, she felt that he would have no choice but to reach out to his contacts when she presented him with two notebooks full of names.

She watched Dave, who was trying to eat a muffin without getting crumbs everywhere and was doing a better job at that than Linda could have. His hands, unlike hers, were skilled with fine machinery, or so she assumed given his work as a maintenance man who worked with small electronics and did part-time computer repair. She did not think for a moment that he would assist her in breaking into hotel rooms, but that did not mean he might know some of the smarter ways to get past a locked door.

"Hey," she said after taking another sip of tea. "I went down to Winchester a week or so ago, to see my old guardian-type-person. Roger, you know him. Anyhow, I stayed at a motel for the night and while I was out… I'm not a hundred percent sure about this, but I think someone might have broken in."

Dave looked worried. "Did your card or key or whatever it was get swiped at any time? Did anyone bump into you or anything like that?"

"No, at least… there might have been someone on the bus, but I had the card with me when I got back, and I don't think I ever left it. But when I got back, things were moved around just a little- one of my sweaters had been on top of my bag when I left but was on the bed when I got back. And the carpet was damp and I'm pretty sure that it wasn't like that when I left. I can't prove it and I wasn't missing anything. But it still felt off."

Dave turned toward her slightly. "Have you noticed anything else weird?"

"No. Nothing. I don't know. I haven't been sleeping much, like you said. Maybe I'm just tired out. It's like I can't think clearly anymore- almost none of my thoughts seem to be coming in any kind of order other than 'Crap, I have to do this!' And it's not getting better."

She knew better than to mention that her nights had become sleepless hours of poring over a rough plan of Betram's Hotel. Criminals were still dying, both in England and around the world, but the pace had slowed. That was worrying. The visit to Winchester that she had embellished for Dave's benefit had not involved Roger, who had been away on a fundraising trip near Scotland. But it had involved walking into the training facilities of Wammy's and stealing a police scanner for her personal use.

Yet nothing had come of it. She heard nothing but standard burglaries, and even those were few and far between now that fear of Kira had begun to seep through every walk of life. After several fruitless days of waiting, in which there was no response to her interview with _Worldwide News and Affairs_ and no word on Light's progress, she had begun to haunt the lobby of Bertram's behind a newspaper. Mikami had come down once or twice to speak to the clerk, but most of his requests had been about transport and she could not get close enough to hear more. The few times he had come out, he had been pale and sunken-eyed and from the distance he looked as if he was either sleep-deprived or ill. But more than that, Linda had been unable to discover anything of value.

Finally, she had grown so desperate that she tore up the check for her sketch artist work and went to the police department to see what they could do for her. It was a horribly risky thing to do, given that Light might be in any room, but there had been no sign of him. All she had overheard was "he's making progress, last I checked with him" from the Chief Inspector, Felix Temple.

But then again, that could reasonably be applied to any number of things. Linda was grasping at straws, and she knew it.

She brushed her hair back behind her ears twice and then leaned back against the couch. "Dave, I'm sorry."

He looked back at her, grey eyes puzzled. "What for?"

"For me. For the past week or so. I feel like my whole life is stuck together with really cheap tape, and I know I haven't been talking with you as much." It seemed now that every time she spoke to him, all she had to say was a lie. "And I'm sorry for that."

He brushed back some strands of hair gently and his fingers were cool against her cheek. "You don't have to apologize. It's tough for anyone to get a job and do themselves, and you're doing it on your own. At least I know I can ask my parents for help if things get really bad."

She smiled. "But you won't."

A particularly loud snore came from the bedroom, and Dave clenched his teeth. "A few more months of him, and my pride might be broken."

"I have faith in you." She pushed herself off the couch with one elbow, drawing very close to him as she did. In the back of her mind a little voice was whispering that she should go, that Light might be packing his bags even then.

So to shut it up, she let her lips brush Dave's, as gently as possible in case he wanted to pull away.

He did not. The hand that had brushed her hair slid to the back of her head as he moved closer. Linda leaned back. Now all the coats that had kept them warm were getting tangled, and she shoved them away. She felt a brief moment of regret as the chilly air struck her legs, but by that point there was no concentrating on anything but the fact that Dave hadn't moved away, that she could deepen their kiss and run a hand down his side and feel the pressure of his hand on her waist.

Linda's heart was pounding but she felt slightly sick. This was wrong. Whatever was between them could not last and yet with every passing second she was creating the illusion that it could. She was not turning to him now because of affection or even desire, but rather as an escape, a last reprieve before she dove back into the hell she had created for herself.

As if in response to those thoughts, she clutched Dave tighter, almost hungrily, and this felt cruel too. He deserved better than this, and she would have deserved better too if she had not woven the deceptions that lurked beneath their increasingly urgent kisses. Linda imagined those lies as soot and cobwebs on her hands, covering the boy in her arms every time she touched him and smearing his face every time she kissed him.

She caught her breath, and in that exact moment, her cell phone rang.

"Hell!" she snarled, with an anger that surprised her. Dave didn't seem to notice; he laughed a little and pulled away slightly.

Linda wanted nothing more than to silence the phone and turn to other matters at hand. But when she saw it was Roger, her breath lodged in her throat. Hurriedly she shoved Dave away and stared at the ringing phone as if it was a ghost.

"Linda? Are you all right?"

She raised a hand to quiet him, while the other hovered over the phone. Roger had not called her in weeks, and Linda had begun to assume he wanted nothing to do with her while she pursued Light. She had no idea what to make of his calling her now.

After ages of buzzing, she scooped up the phone. "Hello?"

"Linda, this is Roger. We have to talk."

"What, now?"

There was a brief pause and then he sighed. "No, not now. Come down to Winchester tonight. I'll pay you back for the tickets if that's a problem. It's urgent and I wouldn't be calling if I absolutely didn't have to. Do you have any classes today? If so, cancel them."

She clenched a fist. She had no classes that day, but the tone of this command was not one she liked.

Roger coughed. "Are you still there?"

"Yes." Her voice was icy.

"And?"

"As long as you're paying for it," she said at last. "I'll be there later tonight."

She hung up and looked up to find Dave staring at her. "Oh, come on," she said wearily. "That was Roger." She showed him the number. "See? He just wants to talk. And he's going to be paying for the train ticket, it's nothing funny."

"Linda- that wasn't what I thought," he said. He had fallen into his trick of speaking slowly and deliberately. "But you look- okay, before, you seemed really happy. Now your whole mood has completely changed and I don't just mean the phone call interrupting. Your entire…" He waved a hand vaguely. "I don't know, look- no, that's not what I mean. It's like someone flipped a switch on you."

For all she knew someone might have. Or someone might have taken a few pen strokes to change her entire world.

She grabbed her coat. "I should go." A lump was rising in her throat. "I don't want to. But I've got something to do. Roger's phone call reminded me."

Dave fidgeted uncomfortably on the couch. "Is he hurting you in any way?"

"What? Shit, no, you idiot." Linda passed a trembling hand over her eyes. "It's nothing like that. I just got myself involved with something stupid and he tried to stop me. Now I'm in it and can't get out."

He stood and put a hand on her shoulder. "You can talk to me, you know. Linda, I want to help."

"I know." She clasped his hand for a second. "Okay, look. The thing is, right now I'm in kind of a bind. For a number of reasons. But I'm trying to get clear and to do that, I have some things I need to get and do. Once those are taken care of, I'll tell you what happened. I promise."

Dave looked at her thoughtfully, which she found more agonizing than if he hadn't met her eyes at all. Then he nodded. "Okay, I'll hold you to that."

Looking up at him, Linda felt an overwhelming urge to cry. If she could get through this, she would tell him, she decided. That promise would not be a lie. And if he still wanted to be with her after hearing the truth, she would give him whatever love was in her to bestow. Their kiss goodbye was gentle, but it lingered. If anything happened to her because of this wretched venture, she hoped that was the kiss Dave would remember.

However, as a train carried her out of the city in the failing light, she felt her resolve to go after Light wavering. Surely people like Dave deserved to live in a world where they had no fear of being shot in a drive-by or mugged coming home. Though the methods of Light's reformation were reprehensible, their results were undeniable. Perhaps she could quietly drop her own investigation and Light would go on his way.

This, Linda knew, was her primary problem. She was too emotionally invested in too many things to do much good on this case. Though she hated the notion that one could not have emotions and be a good detective, she did feel that stopping Kira required someone willing to be as ruthless as the culprit god himself. she wanted to end this, she had to do it soon, before she lost all faith in the task and her ability to do it.

Cold wind was blowing when the train came to a halt in Winchester. She sent a text to Roger to say she was on her way, and just looking at the words made her tremble with anger. The more she recalled their brief conversation, the more she became convinced that there was going to be some kind of lecture. She wondered suddenly if he had found the interview in _Worldwide News and Affairs. _That might be enough to explain his demand for action.

When she finally reached Wammy's House, her feet felt half-frozen and the sky was dark. Clouds hung above like a murky soup, and Linda could smell incoming rain on every breeze. The housekeeper let her in, looking very surprised that anyone would come visiting at that hour.

The lights in the foyer were dimmed, but the staircase was still well-lit. Linda knew the children would be in the far left wing in the dormitory. She envied them that. Some of them would no doubt be poking one another, others would be plotting mischievous schemes to steal something from the kitchens or the game room. She wondered if an unlucky few were poring over cases, trying to pull apart clues and the thought made her feel ill.

When she reached the office on the second floor, the door was halfway closed, and the only sound was the faint crackle of burning logs. Her legs came to a halt of their own accord outside the door. Perhaps this was how children felt when they had smashed a window or broken something valuable and were about to face the wrath of their parents. But there was much more at stake than a broken window, and she had a feeling that this conversation would be scaled with that in mind. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

Roger was sitting at his desk, staring at the fire. His glasses dangled from his fingers like a broken pendulum. Somehow he looked even more like a mummy than usual without them. The file folder Near had sent lay on his desk. The only light in the room came from a tiny lamp in the far left corner, but the fire on the right side of the room burned brightly.

He did not turn his head, not even when the door creaked. Linda suddenly had a horrible pang of fear. "Roger?" she said sharply, and took two steps into the room.

He looked up and she gasped. When her heart stopped pounding, she took a deep breath and moved into the room. "I thought something had happened," she said.

There was no need for either of them to mention what that something might have been.

For several painful seconds, there was silence. At last Linda took another few steps, so she was standing directly in front of the desk. "You wanted to see me. I came all the way here and it's really late, so if you'd tell me what's going on, I'd appreciate it."

"There's some spare rooms on the third floor," Roger replied. Linda noticed that he had not looked her in the eye since she entered. "They haven't been used for some time, but I can have them arranged for you if you want to stay the night."

The third floor wing had been where the candidates for L had lived. Near and Mello would have been the last persons to stay there, and Linda shuddered involuntarily. It would be better by far to sleep on the train than remain in the rooms where so many mental dissections had taken place.

Roger noticed her discomfort. "Or I could pay for the next train."

"I'd prefer that, thanks." Despite her best efforts, Linda could not keep a chill out of her voice. "Please answer my question, Roger. Why am I here?"

He fiddled with his glasses in a surprisingly nervous gesture. Then his eyes focused and he sat up, looking more like his old self. "I happened to pass by one of the newspaper racks, and generally I do not look at the tabloids." He tossed a copy of _Worldwide News and Affairs _on the table. "Was that why you picked this publication to do that idiotic interview?"

Linda bit the inside of her lip to keep from cursing him out. "No," she said as soon as she felt in control of herself. "I picked it because Light has used such media before, as did L. It was an imitation of the tactics they did then."

Roger made an impatient sound, and now she wondered if she had been imagining his nervousness. He looked angry. "Linda, if you were going to start this, you should have at least picked your actions with the situation at hand in mind rather than something a defeated opponent used years ago."

"Did you call me out here just to pick away at my tactics for something that you don't have the stomach for anyway?" Linda almost snarled. "Because if so, I'd rather be asleep or doing something productive."

"Like what?" Roger stalked over to the fire and kicked at a log that was in danger of sliding out of the fireplace. "Work on your drawings? Prepare for an art class? When was the last time you sketched? Or are you spending all your time on him?"

Linda wished she could delude herself he meant Dave. She wondered if she should lie and pretend that that was the boy who took up most of her time. But she had told so many lies already and her anger was too strong to bother dissembling. "I thought you didn't want to know about it," she said. "I thought this was my fight."

"It's not much of a fight," Roger said quietly. "And even if it was, it's not one you could win."

She stepped back as if he had slapped her. "What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean that you put yourself at risk without any thought for the consequences and without any calculation. You're going to get yourself killed at the rate this is going, Linda- how can you not see that?" His voice shook. "You do an interview like this and then just let things go? My friend dies after calling you to the police station and you think that's something to just brush off like it's no consequence?"

"Is that what this about? You think I'm to blame for what happened to your friend Allen?"

"No, you're not to blame." The way he spoke the words left her indirect responsibility hanging in every syllable. "But you don't have any control over what Light's doing. Do you know what you're going to do next? Did you have a plan in the event of him using the people around you?"

"I'm not exactly bristling with friends and acquaintances," she snapped, though her mind flashed guiltily back to Dave.

"But did you even consider it as a possibility for those that you know? What if he'd decided to use one of your students?"

Linda felt punched in the gut. She tried to tell herself that that could not happen, that Light did not know her classes. She tried to tell herself that he could not find out, that she was in no database or file that he could access. She tried to tell herself that he had enough of his old goals of justice that he would not kill children. She remembered Near and had to fight to keep herself standing.

"You didn't think about that."

There was no question in Roger's voice. Linda shook her head.

"I'll quit," she said after a moment. "I'll stop. The kids won't be in danger as long as I'm not around. I won't even take substitute classes. I'll go off the grid."

"Don't." There was a peculiar note in Roger's voice, almost as if he had something caught in his throat. "You'll need the money. You can't just come back from disappearing. But you can come back from this."

"From Light? You seriously mean I should sit back and let him win?"

"It's not a matter of sitting back." He bent over the fire and began to build up the coals.

Still his eyes would not meet hers. A cold weight began to gather in Linda's chest. "Are you going to force me to stop?" she asked softly.

That made him look at her. His eyes were shadowed and so pale that they looked almost dead. "No," he said at last. "But I burned everything in Near's file. So you can decide if you want to go on without that."

Linda opened and closed her mouth. The whole room seemed to freeze and then swim before her eyes. Sharp lines of pain crept across her hand, and she realized that she was digging her nails into her palms.

"That was my only way of figuring out the notebooks," she whispered at last. "I don't have any way of finding out more about them or learning how Light might move."

Roger said nothing.

Linda fought the urge to hit him, to kick him over the edge of the hearth. The violence of her anger was bewildering, but she made no effort to calm herself. "Why the hell would you do that?" Her voice was surprisingly level, and a distant voice in the back of her head told her that that calm would not last.

"Because you have to stop now," Roger said softly. "The file would never have been enough to help, and I shouldn't have shown it to you in the first place." He took off his glasses again and began to polish them with shaking hands. "I know you're angry. But I also know you have common sense enough not to keep this up without that file. I don't want you going the way of L, of Near."

"Too late for that," she snapped. "I'm in this now up to my neck, the least you could do was make sure I'd have that one help! That was all I needed!" She was screaming now. "That one file! That was it! If you had just let me keep it, you wouldn't be involved and none of this would matter to you!"

"Of course it would matter to me!" Roger shouted back. His eyes were watery, but Linda was sure that was just from the wood smoke. "You think I'm going to sit back and let anyone who was under my care die again? I've seen it happen too many times. If I can stop it happening with you, that's all I want."

"Well it doesn't bloody matter, does it?" Linda snarled. "I'm not under your care. Even if I was, you've killed me, Roger. I have nothing now. Light is after me and you know he won't stop. So forgive me if I don't believe you when you say my wellbeing matters. I have a killer to try and stop. Emphasis on try." She spun on her heel and left.

When Roger shouted her name, she did not turn around. She did not slow her brisk walking when he called for her to wait. When she reached the main staircase, she sprinted down it. Roger got to the top and she could hear his ragged breathing as he called for her one last time. His words sounded vague and indistinct. "Go to hell!" she shouted without looking back and walked out the front door, past the astonished housekeeper and out into the hall.

As Linda reached the first of two large bushes that flanked the walkway between the gate and the front door of the orphanage, she saw that a cab had pulled up to the gate. A tall man in a dark coat got out. His hair hung lank over his forehead and she could barely see his profile, but there was no mistaking him.

It was Teru Mikami. He had followed her to the orphanage.

Her breath caught in her throat. For several agonized heartbeats she stood frozen, hands clenched at her sides. Then she spun and darted off to the shadow of the house. Mikami had been speaking with the driver, but she saw his head whip around as she turned and Linda was in no mood to see if he had spotted her.

Keeping well within the shadow of the house, she ran the entire length of it out to the back football field. There was a gate in the back wall at the far side of the field that opened to a lane that would eventually take her back to town. She had no illusions that being in the presence of other people would delay Mikami's action, but it might make her death harder to conceal, if it happened.

The gate was rusted shut, so she climbed it, badly scraping her arm and knee in the process. She ignored the sharp pains and began running as soon she got to the end of the lane. At any moment she was expecting a tight pain in her chest, a seizing of her heart, and the world growing dark. But the only pain she encountered was in her side, and the street lamps never faded.

Only after she had reached the train station with no taxi in pursuit did it occur to her that Mikami might not have been going to the orphanage to follow her.

Then she ran back, almost two miles of solid running, only pausing to avoid being hit by a car, and only deviating to avoid running someone over.

What she feared she could not have said. For a brief instant she was calmed when she reached Wammy's and saw that the cab was gone. When she got to the hall to see the housekeeper on her way out the back door, hat in hand, Linda's relief was palpable. She allowed herself to catch her breath before going to the second floor. She wanted to see Roger, if only to warn him. Perhaps between the foot of the stairs and the top, she would be able to swallow her pride enough to tell him she was sorry, that she understood, and that she would listen to him. Even the third was the only thing she could say honestly, she could resolve to mean the other two eventually.

But the sight that greeted her when she got to the study shattered every shred of hope. Roger was nowhere to be seen. The door was half-open and as before, the only sound was the fire crackling. It was not until Linda came around his desk that she saw him.

He was sprawled before the fireplace with a gigantic gash at his throat that spilled gleaming red on the hearth. His eyes were half-shut and his hands were limp and though Linda tried with all her might to stop the bleeding and though she called his name over and over, the red did not stop flowing and he never answered her cries.


	17. Chapter 17

**And now we take a short trip back in time. But by the end we're moving forward again, promise. **

**I don't own Death Note; no profits are or will be made, etc., etc.**

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><p>"You want me to commit a murder?"<p>

"An execution." Light's voice was cool. "Not a murder. You know who I am, Mikami, and you know what my word means. I only ask you to dispatch those who fight unjustly against the world I want to create"

"I understand, I know." Mikami took a deep breath, making sure to keep his head respectfully bowed. "But this command- it's like nothing I've heard from you before."

He risked a look at Light's face and quailed at the cold look in his eyes.

Yet when Light finally spoke, his voice was gentle. "I know that this is a difficult task, and I would not ask it of you if it was not absolutely necessary. This man- he cannot be destroyed by the death note."

Mikami ventured another glance at him. There was no anger to be seen in Light's shining eyes, just the warm regard of a benevolent ruler regarding a loyal servant. That gave the lawyer the confidence to ask the question that had been hovering on his tongue ever since hearing this command from Light. "This man- Roger Ruvie- why must he die…" He almost tripped over the words, but made himself speak them anyway. "… by my hand? You gave me his photograph to study, so we could use the death note."

"Does the thought of killing him violently bother you?"

Mikami's heart seemed to stop beating. For a moment he had a wild instinct to grab the notebook and prove with the number of names written that he did not question, would never doubt. "No," he whispered at last. "No. If you say he has to die this way, then he must die by my hand."

"He must," Light agreed. "You recall the banner that was strung up on the bridge; after all, you brought it to my attention. Ruvie was behind that, and it is he who has been orchestrating half-hearted attempts to gain my attention. Such as this." He threw an English tabloid magazine splashed with lurid pictures and lettering on Mikami's immaculately made bed. The word "Kira" was prominent on the cover. "You know what people who would oppose this new world deserve. You know what has to happen to him."

"I do." Mikami fought to keep his hands from shaking. "But why this way?"

He could feel the doubt in his voice and inwardly cursed his weakness. In this world, there was no room for faltering, especially not before the only true god.

That god was standing at the opposite end of the room now, the cold light that framed him making his eyes hard to see. "You will do it this way because I command you," he said softly. "And because I need to make sure this transgressor knows the greatness of his sin."

There was a note in Light's voice that the young lawyer would have described as gloating had it come from anything other than divine lips. Kira was an instrument of justice, he reminded himself, and forgetting that would amount to blasphemy.

The lawyer took a deep breath. "I understand," he whispered. "I will see it done. Tomorrow night, I promise."

"I knew that I could count on you." Light moved to the door and the hulking shinigami swept after him like a terrible familiar.

The hotel room felt desolate and cold when Light had gone. No matter how luxurious the trappings, such as the soft pillows and the embroidered curtains, the place was hollow, a mere vessel for the work that he was doing.

Lately it had begun to feel like a prison.

There was no joy in London, surrounded by a language he did not understand in streets he did not know. Even his work as the hand of God was beginning to feel like drudgery. Mikami was bitterly conscious that that was a sign of his weakness. A believer should take joy in striking down the sinners. A servant should be honored to serve the one who was remaking the world.

Settling in at the desk, which was marble-like in its smoothness and as black as the cover of the notebook he used, he started to write again. "This is all," he whispered. "This is all."

It had become his mantra in recent days. When he had been in Japan, remaking the world on the command of his distant deity, there had been a savage joy in scribbling down the names with the knowledge that somewhere an evil man or woman was dropping dead. Meeting his god in the warehouse had seemed the climax of everything Mikami had hoped and believed.

Everything afterwards had been a confusing swirl of contradictions, sharp orders, and bitter loneliness.

He grabbed the pen and started to write. Light had told him before they came to London that he was to concentrate on criminals in Europe and South America, since those continents contained many countries that had yet to acknowledge Kira's presence. After a few minutes of painstaking writing, he set the notebook aside and moved to the window.

He shifted the velvety fabric a few inches, looking out onto the people passing below. The swirl of glowing numbers and names dancing below made Mikami feel ill and he leaned back against the wall by his desk.

"This is all," he whispered again. "This is all."

There was no room for doubt. Kira was the only one who had seen the flaws and the rot in the very framework of the world, and if an old man had to die to make the world clean, then there was nothing Mikami could do but become the instrument. Yet the weight of what he would have to do was a crushing pressure in his chest. That had to be a flaw in himself. Burdens were to be expected when undertaking a divine mission. Yet surely divine work would not make a man feel sick and foul, as if he was about to step in something filthy.

But this was the price of living in a filthy world. Cleaning it would mean he had to step into the rot. After all, he reasoned, there had to be someone to do what was necessary for a god. Even benevolent deities had messengers of death.

With an effort he pulled his scattered thoughts together. If he had to dispatch this man with his own hands, he had to find the best way to do so. Though the man was old, Mikami was not sure he could simply strangle him. Obtaining a gun in this country was too difficult in the short time he had, hindered as he was by his foreign language. There were only a handful of weapons he could obtain without causing suspicion, and he could not risk being disrupted from his mission.

After some thought, he went out to the shopping area known as Piccadilly Circus, making it there more by luck than skill, and found a little store that sold straight razors. It was not until he got back on the bus that he realized he had not purchased any kind of soap or lotion to go along with shaving. It was too late to do anything about it then, so he returned to the hotel.

After dropping his purchases off in his room and trying and failing to make sense of online schedules, he went down to the clerk to ask about trains to Winchester. After some strained conversation, he finally was able to secure a time for an evening train the next day.

There were still hours to pass, so Mikami wrote more names in the notebook, his hands shaking more and more with every name. Finally he sat up and moved to the window again. The sky outside was still stubbornly bright blue.

He sank onto the bed and buried his head in his hands. There was nothing worse he could imagine than this paralysis of the mind. He felt nothing but an intense weariness at the prospect of writing name after name, day after day, year after year. For the first time, he wondered what his life might have been if he had never stepped forward, if he had never offered himself up to serve his deadly god.

Finally he forced himself to confront the simple truth: the thought of killing a man terrified him. His fingers grew white as he gripped the comforter of the bed. This act was a divine command. He should feel elevated and honored, but Mikami could only feel that he was about to throw himself off a cliff with no sight of the bottom.

He brought the death sentence upon men for crimes such as the one he was about to commit. Most of them had had motivations of the basest kind: lust, greed, hate, anger. But there had been a few who had insisted that it had been commanded, that they had had to do it. For the first time, Mikami wondered what higher force those instruments of death had served. He felt as if a lead weight had been dropped into his hands, a weight he would have to carry and wield with no strength or help.

His slow pace on the death note forced him to work late into the night, and even after he gave up the task in exhaustion, sleep did not come. Every shadow in the room seemed to flicker and move just out of eyesight. Before meeting Ryuk, he had imagined shinigami as takers of souls, and though he knew better now, he could not shake the image of one swooping out of the dark and coming for him.

The next day, Light left for the police station at mid-morning, telling Mikami he would be there all day. He made no mention of what he had asked the previous day, but there was a cold command in his eyes that made the young lawyer shudder.

Mikami spent the day writing feverishly in the death note and trying to determine how best to use his razors to make Ruvie's death quick. Keeping his mind on the grisly tasks was impossible to do without waves of sick terror. Writing the names of the sinful was one thing, cutting a man's throat quite another.

Finally the time came to go to the train station. After carefully concealing the death note in the lower right-hand drawer of the desk, he gathered his tickets, his phone, and his weapons. He threw a jacket on, barely even noticing the wrinkles in his shirt, and went outside the hotel.

The air was cold and wet, a damp thaw hanging in every breeze. March had brought the slightest relief from the cold, but there was little sun or cheer. Everywhere he looked, Mikami seemed to see old men, whether they were getting on a bus, purchasing a paper or tea, or simply passing by. He tried to imagine facing one and using one of his freshly purchased razors on their throats. The image was ludicrous.

But there was no defying Kira's will, not if he wanted to call himself a loyal servant. Mikami raised a hand for a taxi. Everything around him seemed blurred, save for the glowing names and numbers dancing above the heads of every person. When he reached the station and got on the train, the weight in his chest seemed to increase. As it sped through the country and the sky darkened, he wondered if this was what a drowning man felt as he was being pulled to the depths.

After reaching Winchester and ordering another taxi, he realized only after they were halfway to the orphanage that this might be a mistake. The driver might recall him later when the body was discovered. For a moment Mikami considered telling him to go somewhere else and walking, but that would almost be more conspicuous. His mind had to be on his task. The razor, sharp and ready, was in his jacket. He surreptitiously slid a trembling finger along the tip of the blade and felt a slight sting. It was a minor cut, nothing noticeable. He would have to make a larger one soon, and on another's body.

The weight in his chest seemed to be crushing him. This act seemed more incongruous and impossible with every passing second and yet here he was at the gates, telling the driver to wait, opening the little door in the larger iron one, walking inside. There was a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, near the house, and he thought he heard the sound of footsteps. But when a small rabbit scampered out of the underbrush, he paid them no mind, even though a voice at the back of his head was screaming that no rabbit could make steps like the ones he had just heard. The death he had to cause was consuming him, and he felt a desperate craving for a notebook and pen. He had neither with him. Just the razor. That was all. This was all.

He entered without thinking about witnesses, but fortune proved to be on his side. The hall was deserted, as were the stairs. Mikami climbed with shaking hands and a pounding heart. The closer he came to his objective the further away the impending act seemed. Surely he could not be doing this, skulking up a stair with a razor in hand to cut some old man's throat. Yet here he was and his feet were moving forward as if with a mind of their own.

The door to the study was partly open and Mikami could hear the faint sounds of fire crackling. Inside someone was pacing back and forth. His breath seized in his chest and his heart throbbed and the little shreds of reason he had left told him to drop everything and run, flee Kira and notebooks and messengers of death, and hide till all the world had ended. He wanted to scream.

Instead he stepped inside and attacked.

The old man had barely any time to turn. His gasp was cut off by the smooth strike of the blade Mikami carried, and even though Ruvie's attempt to evade the blow made the cut uneven, it was enough to do the job. Blood poured out in pulses and Mikami could see the glowing numbers above the old man's head dropping exponentially. They moved so fast he could not keep track of them and before he knew it, the letters and numbers flickered and died.

Freed of his obligation, he dropped against the heavy desk behind him like a puppet whose strings had been cut. There had been no instructions past this point, or perhaps he simply did not remember them. His brain was producing short rapid bursts of sensory perception: smoke from the fire in a pungent trickle, the ticking of the clock outside in the hall, the rich red-brown of the old chairs in the room, the yellow-orange hue of papers on the desk reflecting the fire. In the street, the glare of headlights; in the lawn, the rattle of bushes blowing in a cold breeze.

For a second or two he stumbled around the room. He thought about leaving the razor here so it could not be found on him. A faint flicker of reason told him that his fingerprints were all over the thing. There was no point in cleaning; he could hardly make the body look as if it had died from natural causes. Finally he decided that since no one had seen him enter, he should try to leave in the same circumstances. This seemed the most reasonable thing to do, so he went downstairs, checking back and forth as if he was about to cross a busy street.

He only just remembered to wipe his hand clean before going back to the cab which was waiting for him. Mikami felt a faint twinge of surprise at that. His guilt felt written all over his face. Apparently it was not; when he told the man to go back to the train station, the man did so without comment or question.

Everyone and everything made him flinch as he made his way to the train, so it was just as well that apart from a few stragglers he only met the conductor who took his ticket. Mikami spent the ride alternating between quivering terror and blackness with flashes of detail bursting into his senses. When the train arrived in London, he inadvertently put his hand in his pocket and cut himself horribly. In a panic he threw the straight razor into the nearest wastebasket and ran for the closest washroom to clean. There was only one other man in the room and Mikami almost lost his mind when the man offered sympathy for his injury. He could not remember what he said. He did not recall hailing a taxi to get back to the hotel, but since he found himself there at dawn, at some point he must have done so. For some reason he was convinced that when he reached his hotel room, the whole thing would be forgotten.

His limbs felt like water and his head felt light. Several times he tried to get up and write in the death note on his desk only to find that the pen kept dropping from his fingers. Every shadow was a flicker of movement and every voice was approaching law enforcement. He could not think clearly and could barely stand. There was no sign of Light, which filled him with child-like terror. He had to tell Kira that the task was done, he was still faithful, and perhaps earn a little rest.

But his god did not come. Night fell, and he was alone.

He could not bring himself to turn on the light. If he did, he was convinced that he would see his hands covered with blood. That made him scramble for the washroom in a panic to scrub away any red-brown flecks that might still smear the nails and creases of his right hand.

As he was washing, a knock came at the door.

His heart flew into his mouth, and terror racked his body like a pounding electric shock. With difficulty, he pulled himself together and moved to the door of the washroom.

The knock came again. Then came a firm female voice. "Mr. Mikami? This is Inspector Allen, from Scotland Yard. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I can. It's to do with some burglaries that have been going on in the hotel."

Relief unwound his tense limbs and he almost collapsed against the doorframe. This would not be difficult. A few words and this person would go away. "A moment," he called in a shaking voice. Wiping his hands on his jeans- an action that would have made him cringe with distaste a day ago- he made his way to the door and opened it a crack. "Thank you, but there have been no…"

A body slammed against the door, which swung inward and cracked Mikami hard on the chin. He stumbled back and the intruder entered. A brief burst of light from the hall showed that the figure was shorter than Mikami, thin and slender in a dark hooded jacket. Then the door slammed, leaving the room in pitch blackness. Mikami could see the blur of letters and numbers above the person's head. The name was stable but the numbers were shifting and dancing wildly, changing seemingly with every second. There was a scrabbling sound and the light turned on.

Blinking several times, Mikami finally was able to look at the person by the door. A black ski mask, of the kind he had only seen in films, was pulled over the person's head. The numbers were still dancing, but they had begun to slow, and he now had sense enough to take in the person's name: Linda Grey.

Belatedly he realized that she was carrying a gun, something with a long barrel that looked far too large for her hands.

"Where did you get that?" he asked stupidly. "Guns… they are not…"

"Allowed?" she said. "I got lucky. As far as luck goes. Met a kid who does graffiti for a gang near the place I used to live. I asked him for a gun. He got me one."

She took a step forward and Mikami could only stare. She was an aberration in the way things ought to be going now. Nowhere in Kira's plans had there been a thug who forced his way into his room and threatened him with a gun. He tried to think what to do. Calling security seemed the obvious step, so he tried to determine how far away the phone was.

The girl seemed to read his eyes. "Don't bother," she said. Her voice was very quiet, but with rough cadences. She must have been crying. "I have no problem killing you. You and your god have left me with nothing to lose. I need to know one thing." The gun shook in her hands. "Why did you do it?"

He tried to think of what to say, but his tongue seemed to have disconnected from his brain.

That infuriated the girl and she took another step. Again the numbers above her head began to dance and change, increasing and decreasing with unnerving speed. "Why did you kill Roger?" she snarled.

"He had to die," Mikami whispered. The swift strike of the razor and the way the man had gasped and been drowned out came back to him. Against his will, doubt began to creep into his voice. "He was fighting against us, against what the world had to be. Kira is making something new and he stood against it."

"You're an even bigger lunatic than I thought," the girl said. Without warning she sprang forward and smashed the gun across Mikami's face. There was a sickening crunch followed by pain so thick and wrenching that it felt like someone had jammed a hot poker into his nose. Before he had time to recover, the girl had grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him into a sitting position. "Look at me."

He tried to concentrate past the pain in his face. The gun was pointed directly at him. Even in his dazed state, he realized she had had the forethought to step out of his reach so he could not lunge for the weapon. The cold realization that he might die within seconds swept over him.

"Listen to me," the girl snapped. Her hands were trembling. "Roger was innocent. He had nothing to do with anything against your precious Kira. I was the one going against Light. I was the one who strung up the banner, who did that interview."

Mikami tried to sit up.

"Don't move," she said. Her voice still contained the rough edge of tears, and the lawyer instinctively froze. He had seen many criminals: hardened killers, those who struck in passion, those who acted in desperation. From her shaking hands, he could only assume she was new to firearms. But her voice had a hard edge that left him in no doubt she was capable of pulling the trigger.

"He had to die," Mikami said again. The pain in his nose had begun to slow from a white-hot spike to a throbbing ache. "He had to."

"Because Kira commanded it?" the girl asked. She grabbed the desk chair and sank into it, keeping the gun pointed in his general direction.

"How did you know?"

She exhaled and lowered the gun. Then she began to laugh.

It was a choking, unsteady, and unstable sound. Mikami had heard a laugh like that before, prosecuting a woman who had stabbed her abusive husband. Her laugh had come when he described her as a willful and vicious wanton. It had been a horribly unsettling experience in court, and it was a thousand times worse now that he lacked the protection of police and security. There was raw pain and bitter contempt- for him and for everything- in those gasps.

"Oh, you idiot," she said when her voice came back under control. "You've been had, you moron. You're going to be dead just like all the others."

"He chose me." The pain in his nose seemed to have spread to his side. "He sent me to do his work, and I did it. He needs me. God needs me."

She jumped out of the chair. "You are helping a bloody sociopath go on a power trip because you're too weak about your own morals to hold them without someone telling you they're right!"

"You know nothing about the work he does," Mikami gasped. He had to defend his cause against this girl. "He is making the world better, ridding it of evil. You have no place to work against this. Neither did your friend Roger. That is why he had to die."

Before Mikami could blink, he was looking down the barrel of the gun.

"Roger wanted me to stop," Linda whispered. "He burned everything about Kira and the death notes and you, and he told me he wanted me to quit. He was going to let Light win. He wanted me to end it. He was innocent. And you cut his throat. And you did that on the orders of your precious god." She laughed again. "Ridding the world of evil, did you say?"

The pain had begun to form a dull aching haze in every part of his body, and even if he had wanted to move, Mikami was not sure he could. "I had orders," he whispered. "God told me to."

Linda stared at him and then lowered the gun. She put a tentative finger on his throat and peered at him more closely. "You idiot," she said again. Her voice was soft, almost pitying. "You're going the way of his others- Misa, Takada."

"No." Mikami tried to rise and found that his chest seemed to have accumulated a thousand kilograms worth of pressure. He recalled how Light had brushed off suggestions of the death note for Ruvie's death, how he had never given him instructions for what to do after the death of Roger. Only the doubts were coming through his haze now, and they almost broke him.

After a moment, he realized that another thing was coming through the mist. It was Linda's voice. "Mikami. Mikami! How can I find Light? Where is he now?"

Mikami's tongue felt thick and his breath felt stuck in his throat. He was beyond speaking now. These symptoms could mean only that he had sinned and yet only the cruelest god would punish a man who had acted on his orders. Surely Kira would not do that to the servant who had served him so well.

Then he recalled something that shattered all his hope.

The death note had been on his desk. Before leaving, he had hidden it. Someone had known he would be out of the room and had left that on his desk for anyone to find.

The authorities would find him here, with the notebook full of names on his desk.

He had been framed.

With an agonizing effort, he jerked his left hand toward the desk. The girl turned and seized the notebook. She flipped through the pages and dropped it as if it was poisonous. "This doesn't help. Mikami, please, I'm begging you. Help me stop him."

Almost as if moved by a will of its own, his right hand jerked around wildly, tugging vaguely at his pocket. At some point, his cell phone fell out. He had called Light several times on it. That would have to be enough.

Everything was growing darker. His last sensory perception was the hotel carpet, soft and knobbled beneath his fingers. Before blackness took him, the last conscious thought of which Mikami was aware was the wish that he could meet his former god with a notebook and pen in his hands and clear eyes to see Light's name flicker and fail at the last.


	18. Chapter 18

**Clearly I did not finish this in February. I tried, but alas. **

**I owe a big thank you to Anime-StarWars-fan-zach for floating the idea that Light wrote in Roger burning all the files before meeting with Linda and for being nice enough to let me steal it. That hadn't even occurred to me and yet it fits his plans very well. So that's mentioned here and it'll come into play a bit in the next chapter (which is the second-to-last one, agh). Thanks! **

**I don't own Death Note.**

* * *

><p>For a second or two, Light stared at the newspaper that lay on the cafeteria table of the police station. A side column had caught his eye, a write-up on the murder of an old orphanage caretaker in Winchester. He scanned the words and discovered that the police were releasing Linda Grey's name to the press as a suspect in the death of Roger Ruvie.<p>

This meant he had won. He had nothing more to fear.

Granted, Linda's obscurity and her status as an unknown quantity had been the only aspects of her presence that made her a danger to his plans. Light knew he had had a habit of overestimating the intelligence of his opponents. In part this had come about from his paranoia over L's constant vigilance, but he had decided after defeating L that assuming intelligence was simply the wisest course until proven otherwise. Most of the time, his assumption would be proven wrong.

Perusing the column proved how ridiculous his assumption of intelligence had been. The girl and her guardian had had a falling out vicious enough to attract the attention of the housekeeper who had been working late. The working theory of police was that after Linda had rushed out, she had returned to kill her guardian; though they had found no witness to her return, the housekeeper had not seen anyone else enter.

This was in keeping with what he had written in the death note for Roger not two days before- throat cut by an unknown assailant after destroying all information pertaining to the Kira case. Almost immediately afterwards, he had written down the name of that assailant: Teru Mikami, dead of a heart attack in his hotel room a day after killing the caretaker of Wammy's House.

Thankfully, Scotland Yard would not be working directly on the murder of Roger Ruvie. That task would fall to a more remote police department, and the Yard's involvement would end with releasing Linda's name and image to the buzzing mass of London. Light did feel a pang of disappointment that even then, they had been unable to secure a photograph of Linda, but as long as she was on the run, she would not be able to come after him.

Mikami would be at the hotel now, no doubt trembling and lost. The man would meet his end in a few hours, and Light could not bring himself to feel much about it. When the body was discovered, he would receive the lawyer's case, paint him as the culprit, and return to Japan. Linda would spend her life in hiding, or be captured and brought to trial for her guardian's murder. Either way, she could not touch him.

Most of the world either bowed to Kira or ignored him. After leaving England, he would need no companion or partner.

For the first time since his school days, he would truly free to pursue his justice.

He turned his attention to paperwork that day and spent the time committing certain names to memory. Most prominent among them was the inspector Felix Temple- the more often Light met the man the more he received the sense that the old inspector was judging him by some unknown criteria and finding him wanting. After that, he made one more dive into the archives of Scotland Yard cases, still chasing a mythical past clue. It gained him nothing save for the names of a few criminals who had been released on good behavior.

Light committed them to mind. If nothing else, their deaths might stun otherwise indifferent neighbors and family members into believing.

While he worked, a knock sounded on his office, and Felix Temple opened the door. "Mr. Yagami," he said with a polite smile. "Good to see you. Do you need any help? What we can do is limited- official stance, you understand."

"I do," Light replied. "It must be hard to accommodate someone who's pursuing a criminal that doesn't officially exist."

It was a cheap dig, and perhaps he let a little too much triumph into his voice. Temple gave him a cryptic nod. "As you say. Of course, just because something isn't regarded as official… that doesn't mean I or the others here won't take steps about it. We don't need official sanction to draw reasonable conclusions."

Light gave him a thin smile. "I would expect nothing less from England's finest."

Temple smiled and lowered himself into the only other chair in the room, making a great show of moving slowly. "Back hurts after a while," he said blandly. "Did you hear about the case we got in Winchester? Pretty sad- old guy killed, and the suspect is the girl who used to be his ward. Tragic."

"No matter how hard we fight, Inspector, there will always be evil we have to face. The world may be safer, but it is still struggling."

"True." Temple shifted a little in his seat. "I just thought you might be interested in it. Didn't that friend of yours get caught up somewhere near that- got lost and nabbed by mistake for loitering?"

Cold waves of shock and rage swept over Light and passed as quickly as they came. "I believe so, yes," he said calmly. There was no point in denying this, but his mind raced. Either Temple was suspicious of him, or he saw Mikami's proximity as nothing more than coincidence. Neither option appealed to Light; ideally, no one should have noticed the proximity at all.

"He had an acquaintance that grew up in the area, I believe," he said, hoping his pause had not been too long. "It's a shame about the caretaker. I'll have to ask if Mikami knew the man."

"If he does know him, perhaps he could consider helping out the Winchester police. They've got their suspect, but, as I'm sure you know, every little bit helps."

Light nodded. "Of course. Is that all you wished to ask me?" He could feel his fingers clenching on his pen almost to the point of breaking it.

Temple stretched. "Well, that and to check if you needed help. But you seem to be doing just fine here. Let me know if anything comes up." He rose and gave Light a nod. "Oh, and that reminds me- we've had a slew of stabbings, lately, if you count poor Thomas Carter. Stabbed to death by an old taxi driver who killed himself afterwards. You never got to see him, did you?"

Light shook his head. "I tried to visit him, but no one came to the door when I knocked. After about twenty minutes, I gave up and left. I'm so sorry. I had no idea something had happened to him, or I would have spoken with you sooner."

"There's no way you could have known." Temple waved a hand. "Just sad, isn't it. Crime's been dropping worldwide- even here- and then in less than two weeks, two brutal deaths. I guess it's like you said- there's always evil somewhere." He gave Light a very sharp look before leaving at a slow shuffle.

For a moment, Light stared after him. Then he scrambled in his bag for the notebook he had taken from Mikami's room earlier that day. If Temple was able to find Light suspicious, there would be others. His pen hovered above the paper for what seemed like hours. Temple's death had to be discreet, and while a disease was almost certainly the best way to go about such a problem, he wanted the man gone rapidly.

In the end, a simple car accident, set a month from that day, was scratched into the notebook, along with Temple's name.

He wanted to be sure that there was nothing to pin him to the time of death when Mikami's body was discovered, so Light worked late into the night, long past the hour of the lawyer's death. Then he returned to the hotel. He showered and began checking the internet to see how media worldwide was handling the phenomena of Kira. Many of the articles mentioned in guarded tones how the deaths of criminals had decreased sharply in the past few weeks. A few outspoken op-eds posited that Kira might have gone.

This was grating to Light, but it was sacrificing a knight to take the king.

Ryuk had been silent most of the day, but when Light finally took notice of his handstands to toss him an apple, he did not immediately begin devouring it. "Hang on, Light. If you leave Mikami there, won't the police find out about the death note he's been using? I know they don't acknowledge Kira here, but a book of names like that- they're bound to get suspicious, even if they don't run into me."

"They won't see you," Light said shortly.

"If they find that notebook, they will. No way around it."

"I substituted a false notebook for the one Mikami was using, changing up the spelling of some names and putting Ruvie and Carter among them towards the end. The police will assume he became obsessed with the Kira rumors and went too far in his efforts to emulate him. And when his body is taken back to Japan, I'll substitute the true death note so the police there will assume he was Kira all along."

"Ah. Clever." Ryuk regarded him intently for a minute. "Are you going to miss him?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Light said with the ghost of a smile, and Ryuk cackled. He bit into the apple, gnawing at it with bestial enthusiasm.

"Interesting," he mumble through mouthfuls. "And when you get back to Japan, you'll keep going?"

"The whole world will know me as Kira eventually," Light replied. "But it will take time."

As he spoke, his cell phone began to ring.

Light picked it up and examined it. The number was unknown to him, but what was most worrying was that he had given this number to no one but Mikami and the English police.

As he waited, the buzzing stopped. After a few seconds' pause, the phone began to ring again. This time, he answered it. "Who is this?"

The voice on the other end of the line was old and male. "Ah. Mr. Yagami, I believe? Better known to the world as, ah, Kira."

Light closed his eyes and tried to think. His first instinct was to hang up the phone. His second was to deny any knowledge of the term. In the end, he succumbed to neither.

"Who are you?" he asked at last. "I'm not sure we've met."

"Ah. I would be very surprised if we had. And I don't think that I'd, ah, be walking now if we had. However, I have, ah, recently come into some information about you. And, ah, I thought you might like a chance to, ah, comment. Or perhaps, ah, discuss what you'd like to do with this information."

Rage coursed through every vein of Light's body. He had written into the death note that Roger Ruvie destroyed all information he had on the Kira case before his death. But the man had overseen the world's greatest detective. He should have realized that the man would send a backup to a third party. Perhaps he had done so long before his death. A foolish mistake, one that he would pay for unless he assessed and took care of this threat.

"I'm curious to know what information you have," he said quietly. "I am not Kira…" this for any recording the man was making, "but I have a great deal of interest in his case."

"Really? Ah. Well, ah, I'm willing to meet. No time like the present of course. Deadlines, ah, being what they are. Otherwise, ah, well. Papers have to run. The press never stops."

"You can't just put my name to Kira's in a paper," Light said carefully. He had to gauge what this man knew. "You'll need proof."

On the other end of the line there was the sound of shuffled papers. "I understand. Ah, I think we'd be better able to discuss this topic in, ah, person. However, I, ah, know about the first, ah, L. Interesting, how he actually, ah, introduced himself to you. I don't, ah, pretend to be him, but, ah, in the circumstances, I may, ah, follow his example."

Light was silent for a minute, weighing every inflection and pause. This level of knowledge meant serious trouble. "You mentioned deadlines and a press. I would prefer that not to happen. But why publish? Why not go to the police?"

"Ah, well. Let's put it this way- Mr. Ruvie's computer was, ah, lamentably insecure, considering the information it, ah, contained."

Silence fell again. Light considered that. If this man had committed a crime to obtain the files, then that might be explanation enough for why he had opted for blackmail. Even a tabloid could topple power; he recalled the affair of the United States senator that had been exposed by what was considered a trash magazine by any objective standard. Though it was almost incredible that this man would believe he had a chance against Light, it was very possible he did not know the full ramifications of what Light could do with a notebook and pen.

That gave him an idea. "I think I can meet tonight. Can you come to Tower Bridge at 3am?"

"Ah. Well." There was some more paper shuffling and the sound of a scraping chair. "Yes. I can."

"Good."

He hung up and immediately traced the number on the cell phone. It gave him an address on the outer skirts of London. A few more searches and one database check later, he had the name James Gleeson, editor of the tabloid _Worldwide News and Affairs._

Linda's hand had to be in this. Given the thinly veiled interview in that publication, she and Gleeson had to be allies. He could not tell if the editor was acting with her help or whether he had become the last line of defense for her, much as she had been for Near. Whatever the reason, he would not be hard to eliminate. Gathering a few tools and checking the battery on both his phone and Mikami's, he slipped outside Bertram's and hailed a taxi.

The night was cold and fine when he reached his destination. There was a construction site nearby, and moving a few levels up the scaffolding gave him a clear view of the bridge. He had arrived a few minutes early in the hopes of seeing Gleeson arrive. Ten minutes later, a thin man emerged from the shadows and walked past the construction onto the bridge. Light raised a small telescope that he had purchased cheaply a few weeks earlier. Then he cursed softly. The newcomer was wearing a mask.

As the man walked, it became apparent that he was ill at ease. He kept glancing over his shoulder and from side to side in nervous spasms. As Light watched, he pulled at the edges of his mask with shaking fingers. Sometimes he would quicken his pace and then slow abruptly. His movement made Light think of a backfiring car jerking slowly and painfully along a difficult road.

This was not what Light had expected. Such nervousness was a rational reaction to the danger this man had walked into, but that begged the question of why he had gotten involved in the first place. For a brief second, Light pondered calling the police and telling them about a suspicious loiterer. He decided against it.

For a few minutes more he remained in the scaffolding. The man had halted a few feet across the bridge. A lone car swept up and past him. There was no other sound.

Light recalled what the man had said about L walking up and introducing himself. Perhaps the man was expecting that as proof of Light's identity. If nothing else, it would move things from this impasse. If Gleeson craved power, Light could dangle that before him much as he had used it against Higuchi.

He hesitated before climbing down the scaffolding into the street. This man was a threat, one he would have to dispose of before leaving England. He was an amateur threat, a blackmailer who was trying to set himself against a god. This was just another nuisance.

Yet he could not shake a troubled feeling that only grew stronger as he walked toward the bridge. The man had not noticed his approach, and Light slowed. Perhaps he would have been wiser to leave the man to his own devices and deal with the fallout. It was not too late to make that choice; he could go back to the hotel. Yet the risk of his name being attached to Kira's, given his own history as a suspect and the recent attempt to throw suspicion on Mikami, was far too great. He had to face this threat.

Again he checked the man through his small telescope. What he saw astonished him. Furtively, stealthily, the man slid a hand into his pocket and took out a cell phone. Light could not see what he was dialing, but the gesture was repetitive, and he was left in no doubt that the man had dialed an emergency to 999.

That decided him. He could not be found in the vicinity if the man planned to tell police what he knew. England's refusal to acknowledge Kira would not be enough to keep Scotland Yard from calling in Interpol if the man pointed to Light in those circumstances. And due to the mask there was no possibility of eliminating Gleeson before the law arrived on the scene.

Despite himself, Light felt a surge of admiration. This step had been well-taken. He turned and then froze, just in the shadow of the scaffolding a few yards away from the bridge.

There was a faint shadow under the stairs of the scaffolding, a darker blotch where there should have been a dim view to the construction site beyond. As he watched, the shadow moved forward. It was a girl, clad in a black sweatshirt and jeans. A ski mask was pulled lopsidedly over her face. However, it was her hands that arrested Light's attention. She was carrying a gun.

He watched her for a moment. "Linda Grey," he said at last. There was no question in his words.

She nodded.

"I'm not sure why you've fixated on me, but I promise you, all I want is to find Kira and put a stop to this."

"You don't need to worry about the act." The girl's voice was rough, perhaps from crying, perhaps from dehydration or hiding in cold places. "I don't have a recorder. I'm not with the police. I'm on the run, remember? Thanks to your lawyer's stunt."

Light examined her closely. Her sweatshirt was streaked with dust and her jeans contained faint dark streaks. She had been hiding somewhere dirty and probably had been wearing the same clothes for the past three days. It was unlikely she had the money or access for a recorder, but he felt inclined to check. "How did you get the gun?"

"There was a kid who did graffiti in my neighborhood," she said quietly. "He's not a big-time gang member or anything, but he knew people. He knew where I could hide. And he got me this."

Light stared at her almost pityingly. "You might have been better spent trying to get a recorder." Surreptitiously, he opened one of the cellphones in his pocket and began to dial the emergency number. "If you believe I'm Kira, that would have been a safer option. You still would have lost. But it would have been a better move."

"Stop." The word was almost a snarl.

Her hands were shaking on the gun, which made Light wary. "You didn't have to do this in the first place," he said gently. "I'm working to make the world better, and I have. Surely you can admit that. Crime has decreased. People- good people- will actually have a chance to live their lives well."

"Do you really care about good people?" Linda asked. "Your family's pretty much destroyed. Weren't they good?"

"They were necessary sacrifices," Light said sharply.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The girl caught her breath and Ryuk gave a breathy chuckle. Light stared at her confusion, understanding dawning. "You held that man at gunpoint too?" He laughed. "He called the police in. Quite understandable if you threatened him. Were you holding the gun to his head when he spoke to me?"

Fury tightened every line of her body, and even her shivering shoulders froze. Light could not believe how crudely she had proceeded. She had no plan and was running on blind luck and desperation. Yet the gun in her hands was going to be hard to evade. For all her blunders, she had him pinned. He wished he could have taken back his laugh. Keeping a smirk off his face, he adopted a gentle tone.

"You don't have a chance of winning, Linda. If you turn yourself in, I can get you off the murder charges of your guardian. I have the evidence that's needed."

"You mean the notebooks?" the girl asked, and laughed hoarsely. "The fake one you planted on Mikami, or the true death notes?"

Light stared in his turn. "You were in the hotel," he said at last.

"I watched him die," she replied. "And then I went to Gleeson's and told him what to do. One look at the gun and that was enough. He's a coward. But even then, I think he wants you done."

The wailing of the sirens drew nearer, echoing across the water of the river. Light looked at her. She had taken a few steps closer to him, but not enough for him to lunge for the gun. "Think about what the police will find here," he said. His tone was kindly, almost the tone he might have taken trying to explain a math problem to his sister Sayu. "You pointing a gun at me. A witness you've threatened. That won't look good, even if I show them what Mikami wrote. You have a chance to get out of this, Linda. Just put the gun down and run."

She closed her eyes for so long that Light wondered if he should take the chance to run himself. Almost unconsciously he shifted his weight. Immediately her glare snapped back, pinning him in place. But as quickly as it appeared, the fury in her eyes died. It was replaced with a calmness that reminded him of dead water, and that stillness was unsettling. "You're wrong," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

The gun ripped through the night and exquisite agony tore through his chest. The sensation was a blend of a ferocious kick and being stabbed with a blunt instrument.

Blinking, he found himself staring at the night sky, which whirled and danced and blurred above him. Coldly, brutally, he could hear a voice above him that boomed like a judgment. "The police will find a body. They'll find this." There was a tugging in his coat, twinges of hot agony, and a clatter coupled with fresh pain assaulting his chest. He put his hand to find a notebook that turned more slippery with every passing second. The figure just beyond his range of vision stooped and crouched beside him. Dimly he saw the figure reach up and remove a black mask from a thin face with large eyes.

"Goodbye, Light Yagami," the voice said quietly.

Twitching, he forced his hand in the girl's direction, and she moved back with wide eyes. Light wondered dimly what she thought he could do to her with a touch; then he saw her staring above him and realized that she was looking at the shinigami. She would not have seen Ryuk before now, he realized and felt an almost childlike sadness at the wasted false notebook in Mikami's room.

Light could feel life gushing from him with every passing second, but if he strained, he could control his limbs. He tried to turn to the side and the notebook fell from his chest to the pavement. The page it opened too was invitingly blank. His fingers were drenched in blood, and that would have to do. Fitting, he supposed, that he take his last life with the remnants of his own.

Then the girl kicked the notebook out of his reach.

Light screamed, a bloodcurdling shriek that made Linda spring back. "You idiot!" he choked when he had control of himself. "You worthless- you fool! You haven't won! This isn't fair! You're no L, you don't think! You can't stop this!" He slammed his bloody hand on the pavement. "Ryuk, show her! Write her down!"

The girl stared from Light to the shinigami, dread apparent in every line of her expression. She did not run or try to conceal her face, however, and the seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. Still she did not move or collapse to the pavement.

Twisting in agony, Light strained his head to his right. Ryuk was hovering, looking down at him with his notebook in hand. The skeletal smile was still in place, but no longer did the shinigami have the nonchalance of a detached observer. His gaze was remorseless, inscrutable, the grin a mask worn by a judge.

"You ask me for help?" he demanded, and the harshness of his voice broke over Light like the crack of a gavel. "Me? I've never interfered. And I told you that I would do one thing at the end of your venture." He began to write. "Your name is mine, Light Yagami, and so is the pathetic life you had left."

The whole sky and the surroundings had faded. Nothing remained to Light's vision but the blackness and the pain in his chest and the shinigami hovering above him. Still, Light strove to speak and finally succeeded. "Pathetic? I was going to remake the world! I was going to be God! I surpassed you! I was going to remake the world." As he thought of the rot and how it would reset he found himself crying. All his effort had been for nothing. "I was going to change things," he whispered. "Don't. Don't."

Ryuk leaned closer. "Change things? What do I care? It's all for nothing in the end, Light. That's all there is after death. For humans and shinigami alike. All of it is for nothing."

Cold seeped into everything until it was the only thing Light could perceive. Every limb in his body was heavy as lead. One last time he tried to reach out for Ryuk, for the notebook. Instead his fingers slipped across the pages, leaving nothing behind but a trail of blood and the prints of a thumb and forefinger.


	19. Chapter 19

**One of my biggest inspirations for this story was _Crime and Punishment, _by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and if you squint you may be able to see some influences of it in this chapter. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it. It's a great exploration of good and evil and the consequences of taking a life, and it's really worth at least one read.**

**Just an epilogue to go after this. **

**I don't own _Death Note, _no profits made, etc.**

* * *

><p>Linda ran after Light's body stopped moving. It did not cross her mind to check his pulse until after she had gotten several blocks away. But by then the police sirens were too close for comfort. She ducked into an alley that ran between two imposing edifices and sprinted along it. Another alley intersected with this one and she turned to the left, away from the sirens. She did not know how much time she might have before police cordoned off the area. All she knew was that she was hunted, and like an animal, her only thought was to evade the pursuit that would snatch her up.<p>

It was not until she ducked into an abandoned building and taken refuge in an unlocked third-floor apartment that she was able to take stock of herself. The room was fringed with torn-up carpeting and the floor was dotted with old bits of insulation. The windows were loosely boarded, allowing streams of cold sunlight. When she moved to the window, she could catch glimpses of a deserted street.

The simple act of walking to the window drained Linda of the little strength she had left. When she stopped moving, her legs began to shake so badly that she was forced to collapse against the wall. She felt hollow and numb. Her heart was hammering against her chest as if trying to break her ribs, and the blast of the gun still rang in her ears. At the memory, her hands leapt as if they had a life of their own and the gun itself fell to the floor with a clatter. Linda pressed the palms of her hands over her eyes, as if that would close her off from the memory of Light's anguished gasping.

"What are you going to do now?" a rough voice asked.

Linda's heart flew into her mouth and she almost fell over in her scramble to get away from whatever had spoken above her head. She cut her hand on a protruding nail but paid it no mind as she saw the speaker.

The shinigami was hovering above her, just a few feet in front of a slatted window. Cold light shone around his bony head and his bat-wings spanned almost the length of the wall. His bulging eyes and perpetual grin made him even more uncanny, an emblem of hell moving from one killer to another.

He turned his head to the side like an inquisitive bird, and the image convulsed Linda with hoarse, deranged laughter. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she gasped. "Not a clue. Shocking, I know, given my brilliant proceedings thus far. But no idea, sorry. I'll be pretty boring for you."

The thing regarded her without emotion. "Maybe. But I'll wait and see." He moved to a crouching position in mid-air, looking almost contemplative. "Why'd you leave the notebook? It could have come in handy, if you're on the run."

She shrugged, a difficult gesture given that she was trembling all over. Perhaps this was what it was like to go into shock. "I want the police to find it. I want the police to find him."

"I figured that much. But you're going to get caught yourself if you keep this up."

He spoke with finality. Now that Linda had gotten her breath back, she realized that he was probably right. She fought down the urge to sprint out of the building and run without looking back. "How do you know?" she asked instead. "Can gods of death see the future?"

The shinigami laughed. The sound made Linda think of dry wood slats clattering together. "No," he said. "It's just the most likely outcome. But who knows? Humans are always surprising."

His words made Linda shiver. "Is that why you followed Light? So he'd surprise you? Did you try and make things happen so they'd be interesting?"

"I didn't give him the notebook- I dropped it and he happened to find it. But that's partly why I did it, yeah. I was bored. Nothing changes in the shinigami world. Humans at least do more than write names and gamble. And once Light had the death note, I had to keep track of it."

Linda pondered that. So many deaths and destruction had come about because a god of death had gotten stuck in the doldrums. Another hysterical laugh bubbled up and threatened to choke her. She forced it down. "So why are you following me? I don't have the notebook, the police probably found it already."

He shrugged. "At the moment, you're the only one who can see me. And I was curious to see what you'd do." Abruptly the shinigami turned and stuck his head through the slats covering the window. The sight of his back and shoulders was so bizarre that Linda had to bite back another burst of hysterical laughter. Then he turned around and faced her. "I don't think anyone's coming. And I'm Ryuk, in case you didn't know."

She blinked at the sudden introduction. "Oh. Well, the police would have come by now. I think." She hugged her knees to her chest. "But maybe not. I didn't think about it."

"If they don't come, what are you going to do?"

It had been almost thirty hours since she had eaten a full meal and she had not changed clothes since the night of Roger's death. Her sweatshirt was stained, her pants torn, and her hand was bleeding profusely. She wiped the cut on the cleanest part of her jeans and tried take stock of her options. There were very few.

"The police will have the death note," she murmured at last. "I should have grabbed it. Something like that… that could do a lot of damage in the wrong hands."

The shinigami made a noncommittal sound.

Linda thought about simply going out of the building and walking away. She did not dare go back to her apartment. Gleeson would have told the police about her and after what had happened to Roger, she had no doubt that they would be there waiting.

She sat down slowly, hoping the bat-like creature above her head could not see her knees shaking. He seemed disinclined to harm her, but she did not want him to know that she felt close to collapse. Time seemed to have ceased to move when she stepped into this abandoned place. Time meant change, moving forward, and these were things that she could not have now that she had fired a gun with the intent to kill.

The sky outside grew lighter. The noises of traffic- brakes, horns, sirens, occasional shouts and clatters- gradually rose as the city began to wake. Linda scarcely heard them. They seemed muffled, as if she was hearing them through thick glass. She wondered how much time had passed.

She finally turned her attention to the weapon in her hands. It was grey, cold to the touch, and heavy. Linda knew nothing about how many bullets it took, or how many might be left. She had been handed it by a boy she had seen near Winchester after asking him for help. He had drawn graffiti near the orphanage so many years ago, the kind of kid who should have been helped by a place like Wammy's House. Instead she had made him complicit in her crimes.

For some reason, she felt guiltier about that then about killing Light. In order to make sure someone could die, she had enlisted the help of a child younger than herself, a child she should have tried to help some months ago.

"I really am no better than Light," she murmured finally, and saw the shinigami turn to her out of the corner of her eye. "But I don't feel sorry for killing him."

Somehow saying that felt like a weight off her shoulders. "I think he had to die," she whispered. She no longer cared if Ryuk was listening. "I think Light was evil. And I think the world is better off without him deciding what's just and what isn't. So that means I've decided what's best for the world. Much as he did."

Ryuk regarded her thoughtfully. "Pity you don't have the notebook, then."

"You have your own notebook," Linda said. She looked at him then. "Unless this gun will do the same thing to you it did to Light, I can't stop you using it."

Ryuk's dry cackle filled the room again. "That gun can't do anything. Would you use it if it could?"

She shrugged. "I used it on Light."

"He killed one of the shinigami, you know."

"He killed a god of death?" Ryuk lowered his head a little, which Linda could only assume meant yes.

"And I killed him," she muttered. "He killed a bringer of death, and I killed him. So why don't I feel like I won?"

She jumped to her feet, suddenly restless beyond measure. The apartment felt like a cage, and though it was the only thing preserving her freedom, it felt harder to breathe within its dirty confines with every passing second. Linda wondered what it would feel like to go to the roof and leap from the summit. The death at the bottom would be a side effect to the goal of freefalling. When she had blasted Light's life away, she had taken the jump. Now it only remained for her body to catch up.

Almost before she had time to process this, she was at the door of the abandoned apartment and looking for the ascending stairs. A thought struck her and she turned around to see the shinigami hovering almost on top of her. "Did you write my name in your notebook?" she asked.

"No. I could if you wanted, though."

Linda shook her head. "I'd rather make my own choice about this."

He followed her, the skeleton's grin fixed on his face. "Are you going to die?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps. I think my life is over either way."

Yet when she got to the roof, she halted. Perhaps it was common sense or the lack of food catching up with her, but opening the rusted door to the roof cost Linda her last bit of strength. She fell down after it screeched open and the whole world seemed to swim before her eyes. When she finally came to herself, the sun had risen high in the sky. The air had begun to warm. An overwhelming urge to clean herself swept over her, and she found herself scooping up old rainwater from a divot in the roof and frantically scrubbing her face and hands. The gun looked ugly and misshapen in the sunlight, a tumorous growth that had crept out of the horrible morning to remind her that it had not been a dream.

When she finished washing, the world had started turning again, as far as she could see. With every slight change in the angle of the sun, Linda grew more and more aware that she had to decide something soon. This roof was no destination, and there was no solution to be had by leaping from it. She had made the choice to end a life and she had killed. Jumping would not change that or render it into something ordinary.

"I think about Roger most," she said, without thought for whether her listener was actually listening. "All I want to do is tell him that I'm sorry. Before he died I blamed him for something that Light made him do. I remember thinking what to say and forming the words and saying them so I could hurt him as badly as I could. Because I remember it so well, it feels like I should be able to reach back and keep those words from every coming out of my mouth. But I can't. And it was because of something Light did. And now I can't think about Light. I don't know if that's because it's too soon or because I just don't care."

"He didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Care." Ryuk perched on a broken pipe like a strange bird. "I think he was pretty startled the first time he killed someone. But once he realized what he could do with the death note, he decided he'd go become a god. Would you have used the notebook?"

Linda did not answer this. Perhaps she would have taken up the notebook, scared at first, and gradually becoming confident, and then drunk on her power. Maybe she would have arranged for her own comfortable living. It was possible that she might have decided to play God.

A few days ago, she would have said with confidence that she would never have used a death note.

She lowered her head. In the reflection of the bedraggled water she looked twenty years older than she was. "Was it worth it?" she asked her weary reflection. She stood up and walked to the edge of the roof. Ryuk's eyes followed her. She could feel his attention on the back of her skull, knew he was watching the lifespan over her head. Perhaps he was deciding whether or not it would be worth his while to scribble her name in his own book. Maybe that was the best way for this to end.

She looked below. A few kids, probably dodging school, had started an energetic football game below. At least one of them might would probably end up in prison later, perhaps for theft or burglary. If these children had grown up in Light's world, they would have grown up with the specter of a striking vengeful entity behind them. They probably all would have stayed law-abiding, conforming to the laws imposed by a man playing at divinity. And somehow that, weighed against the joyous laughter in the alley below, was enough to make her decide.

"Yeah," she whispered, a smile playing across her lips. "It was worth it."

"Are you going to jump? Because if so, I'd like to write your name before you do- no sense in wasting the years."

Linda turned to see the shinigami's head tilted to the side at an angle that would have bespoken a broken neck on any other being. He was watching her intently. She stepped back from the edge and went back toward the gun. Scooping it up, she emptied it and stuffed it into her jacket.

"As you might have guessed, I'm not jumping," she said after this was done. "If you want to write my name, you can- after I draw a picture. Not before."

Ryuk lifted his head and spread his wings to follow her through the door. "Humans are interesting," she heard him say. His voice was almost gleeful.

Linda was half-expecting her heart to stop as she made her way through the streets of London, but nothing happened. When she found herself at the front of the police station, she almost turned around and ran. It was only the memory of the children playing in the alley that stopped her.

She made her way up the steps and walked up the clerk. The man looked horrified at what he saw, but Linda barely saw his face. "I have to talk to the inspector who's in charge of the murder of Light Yagami," she said quietly.

His face and voice seemed to swim together for a moment. Linda repeated her words. Hands seized her arms. One hand, a woman's with a wedding ring, grabbed the empty gun out of her jacket. After that the voices and the office became a blur. She stumbled a little as she was taken to a small room. Perhaps it was a cell, but she could not really be sure. It was tempting to put her head on the metal table in the center of the room and fall asleep. She caught a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass and realized that there had been a reason for the receiving officer's shock at seeing her. Her face and jacket were streaked with dirt and there was a hollowed, skeletal look in her eyes and cheeks. She resembled something that had emerged from a tomb.

After a few minutes, a tall man with dark skin and a calm, capable air entered the room. If he could see Ryuk hovering in the corner of the room, he gave no sign of it. "I'm Inspector Felix Temple," he said. "I hear you have some information about the death of Mr. Light Yagami, who was murdered sometime this morning."

With a slight sigh, he lowered himself into the chair opposite Linda, as if the motion pained him. But his eyes never left her face.

"Yes," she said. Again her courage nearly failed her, and her eyes flew to the corner of the room. Ryuk was watching her intently, the grin still horribly wide. He gave no sign of taking out a notebook. Apparently he had decided to heed her request, and she could not decide if this was a nightmare or relief.

Felix Temple was still watching her.

She met his eyes.

"My name is Linda Grey," she said at last. "And I killed Light Yagami."

"Hm." For all Temple reacted, she might have said that she had had dinner with Light.

Linda wished he would clap her in handcuffs or call in people to take her away. "Did you find a notebook on his body?" she asked.

That did get Temple's attention. His shoulders shifted a little and his face seemed to lose a few age lines. "Yes. Evidence has it."

"You'll want to have it handy. Because what I'm about to tell you will make more sense with it."

Temple had the notebook brought. Linda noticed that it was still in a concealed bag. Roger's name was somewhere between those covers, and for the first time, she thought she would cry. "You need to read it," she whispered. "Trust me."

A pair of plastic gloves was brought, which meant Temple would not be touching the notebook and would be unable to see Ryuk. Linda thought about concealing the shinigami's existence for one second and in the next decided that she no longer cared. Perhaps a stint in an insane asylum awaited her, perhaps a swift death sentence, perhaps a top-secret government concealment. It was remarkable how little these possibilities mattered. She had willingly taken a life and felt no guilt for it, and Linda knew that that reality above all others was the only one that mattered now. Her fate depended on how she would face that fact, not how others decided to deal with her.

She began to talk, mechanically at first and almost quoting Near's files from memory. After explaining how L had fallen and Near had tried to fight the battle he had lost, her voice almost gave out, though whether from emotion or weariness was hard to say. Temple flipped through the death note, carefully checking names, sometimes writing in a small spiral notebook of his own, and occasionally encouraging her to go on.

After she explained how Near had lost, how Mikami's faith in Light had meant that there had been no chance at substituting a false notebook, Temple suddenly stopped her. As she waited, he carefully studied a page or two in the notebook, his eyes thoughtful. Then he nodded. "Sorry about that. Go on, please."

Linda did so and this time she did not stop until she had to tell about finding Roger. Then she almost wept openly. Ryuk had begun to turn handstands in the corner. Between his presence, to which Temple was oblivious, and the walls, Linda found herself wondering if she had lost her mind.

She explained how she had met a child in her neighborhood who she knew did graffiti for a gang, how she had asked him to get her a weapon, and how he had come back with a gun. She told how she had watched Mikami die, how she had gone to the offices of James Gleeson, editor of _Worldwide News & Affairs _and held a gun to his head to make him call Light with the phone she had taken from Mikami. She told, with a stronger voice, how she had told Light to come to Tower Bridge, and how she had shot him in the chest and kicked the death note from his desperate blood-stained fingers.

For a long while Temple said nothing. He took the notebook, closed it, and opened it again to the same page he had gazed at so intently before. Then he pulled off a glove and touched the notebook with the tip of one finger.

He sprang to his feet when he saw Ryuk in the corner. Linda could not decide what do to, and Temple seemed at a loss as to how to respond.

Ryuk had no such hesitations. "Hi," he said roughly. "Are there any apples around here? I'm Ryuk, by the way."

Temple slowly sat down again, never taking his eyes from the god of death. "So all this is true. A name written in this notebook can kill people."

Linda nodded. There was a peculiar note in his voice that she could not identify. "Yes," she said after a minute, not sure if Temple had seen her affirming gesture. "Any human whose name is written in that notebook will die."

"And this is what Light Yagami was using."

Linda nodded.

Temple leaned back in his seat, abruptly looking as tired as she felt. "There was something off about him. I could tell when I asked him about Thomas Carter. I had a feeling he was tied in with the Kira case, but I never expected something on this scale."

There was silence in the room for a minute. Finally Linda looked up. "What's going to happen now? Don't I have to sign a statement or something?"

"You will have to soon," Temple said softly. "But I have to tell you this: I think this is going to get covered up. The Japanese police and Interpol have been notified that Light is dead. The notebooks are going to be returned to Japan for safekeeping, since they had prior jurisdiction as far as I can tell. And if you stick to this story, you will be arrested and facing a very tough trial. It's not an easy story to swallow. That editor you threatened is going to testify that you threatened him, so you may be able to get insanity at best. The government is not going to allow the notebooks to become part of a trial like this. That's something I've already been told."

"You could be lying," Linda whispered.

"I could be, but I'm not. For whatever it's worth, it's not that people here don't believe you. It's that they won't be allowed to let out the truth. I know a good defense lawyer who'd be glad to take your case. I can call him, if you'd like."

Linda tried not to laugh bitterly. "Why would you help me?"

Temple's eyes flickered to Ryuk and then back to the notebook. "I wanted to know what my name being in here meant." He tapped the notebook. "And I appreciate you explaining."

Linda blinked and Temple smiled wearily at her surprise. "I get the impression Light knew I was onto him. My name's written in here. According to his note, I'm set to die in a car accident in about a month."

"So what are you going to do?"

Temple gave her a strange look that might have been pitying. "Keep going. Do my work. Maybe spend more time with my wife and give my daughter an early birthday present. Because there's nothing else I can do." He looked at the shinigami. "Unless there's some way you can take the name off."

Ryuk shook his head. "It's been written down for too long."

"I figured. Well, it was worth asking."

He stood up. "I'm going to call that lawyer, Miss Grey. None of this conversation has been recorded, by the way, on pain of my getting instantly canned by my superiors. My only question for you then is this- why did you turn yourself in?"

Again she thought of the children playing in the alley, and this time she tried to call up Dave's face. For some reason all she could call to mind was his voice, low, soft, and slow. Those two memories were her reason and her comfort in her choice, and yet for the life of her, she could not find any words to explain why.

At least a minute passed.

"I think that it was worth it," she whispered at last. "I think killing Light was worth giving people the option to do the right thing because it's the right thing and not because they're scared of what he'll do. I killed him because he was taking that away from people when he didn't have the right to do that, and because he was killing a lot of people himself.

"But by choosing to do that, I did what he was doing. And since that isn't right for him… it isn't right for me. I've done the same evil that he did. But I don't think I'm the same as him, at least not yet. And this way, I make sure I won't become him."

Her eyes moved to Ryuk, who was watching the scene with voracious eyes.


	20. Epilogue

**So this is it. This story has been an intense learning experience writing-wise, especially in terms of how important planning is to keep things on track. There were a number of times this story nearly got away from me, and for that reason, I cannot tell everyone who's read it how much your reviews and reading have helped. In particular I owe Anime-StarWars-fan-zach a huge thank you; your reviews yanked me out of a really bad slump when I was considering dropping this story altogether and it probably wouldn't have been finished if I hadn't gotten out of that dry spell.**

**As is very obvious throughout this story, I am still a learning writer and as a result have not always done the themes and subject matter of this story full justice. However, my biggest inspirations for this story were Fyodor Dostoyevsky's _Crime and Punishment_ and the short stories of Flannery O'Connor. If you're looking for works that do a wonderful job exploring good and evil and how they manifest themselves in human action, I cannot recommend those writers enough.**

**And of course, none of this would have been possible without the creators of Death Note, who own all the characters and plot devices and such.**

**Thank you all so much for reading!**

* * *

><p>A letter to David Quicksilver, sent three days after the arrest of Linda Grey and unopened until her trial was announced three months later.<p>

_Dave,_

_I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. _

_I would like to tell you more- that I care about you and that you've been in my thoughts ever since I turned myself in. Those words wouldn't be wrong but they feel empty. The fact that I think I do truly love you doesn't change what I did. Because the person I killed was Kira, someone using death as his weapon. I know that's hard to believe. But I am telling you the truth in this. You don't have to believe me, but I did promise you that I would tell you what happened after my troubles were over. They are now, though not in the way I'd have hoped. _

_Anyway, it doesn't matter. If I could play the last few months over to fix them, I would do so many things differently. But that's impossible. And you're off better in this world, where there is no Kira and where I'm not part of your life. Someone who isn't afraid to kill because she thinks she has the wisdom to determine whether or not someone lives or dies- the love of someone like that isn't worth very much. Or at any rate, it doesn't run very deep. It's an immature love, if you will. You deserve better than that.  
><em>

_I've had a lot of time to think about what I did. That might be the true punishment of being arrested. I have nothing to do with myself now but replay what I did that night. And the more I replay it- I can't say honestly say I regret it. Not yet. Not with Roger's face in my mind. He only wanted me to be safe, he only ever wanted me to have a normal life, and I threw that away because I was arrogant and didn't want to think that the pitiful risks I took against Light were for nothing. And because of that, countless others I won't know died. Because of that, a poor idiot lawyer who thought he was working for God never got the chance to turn himself around. Because of that, Roger died. _

_When I think of those things, it's hard to feel sorry. But I still slammed a door on whatever Light might have done next, slammed the door and sealed it permanently. I wish that I'd had the chance to look behind that door first. I wish there was some way I could have looked ahead and seen what Light would do, just so I could know if there was a chance he'd stop or change his mind. I don't think there was- but there's no way to know now. I just wish I had been able to look behind that door. _

_Maybe one day I will be able to become a good enough person that I feel sorry for this. When I do, maybe I can come up with something that will be an apology to Light. I've started to think about how I could do that. I'm hoping that means that I'm not a lost cause yet._

_I'm sorry. This was supposed to be an apology to you, but I don't know when I'm going to get the chance to write again. So I'll end with this- I'm sorry. I truly am. Even then, this apology feels more a salve for me than for you- I'm sorry about that as well. You offered me your kindness and your friendship and possibly your love, and I can't leave that without telling you thank you. It meant the world to me. I'm glad to know that there will be people like you to go on. People like you will set a better standard for what's right than people like me or Light ever could._

_Take care,_

_Linda_

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><p>A letter to the Director of Japanese Police, to be forwarded to Sachiko Yagami.<p>

_Dear Mrs. Yagami,_

_I think I should begin by saying that I'm truly sorry for everything that you've lost. I can't imagine how difficult the past few years have been for you. And I should apologize again, because I'm about to make them worse._

_The envelope attached to this letter contains a timeline from when just before your son, Light, graduated from high school until his death. It will tell you some things you already know and it will explain some things that may have left you with questions about your husband's death, your daughter's kidnapping, your son's work, and why he came to the end he did._

_However, it will make whatever sorrow you currently feel worse. Worse to the point that I can't imagine having to face it. You could decide that you have enough to deal with and that the past is the past, because it is. It can stay that way. But because you've suffered so much, you deserve to at least have the opportunity to know the truth. You should be the one to decide if you know more, not the government and the secret deals it makes._

_Even my sending you this took a deal of sorts. I'm writing it from an asylum, where I'm sentenced for the remainder of my life. I don't know how long that will be. I've pleaded guilty to murder by reason of insanity at the request of the people who know what happened to your son Light. However in exchange for that plea, I have been able to convince them that you should at least have the option to know what happened. If you'd like, you can call up the commissioner of police. Tell him the phrase "Grey Deal" and then ask him for an explanation. He'll confirm what I've written. _

_Since I've spent this letter saying that you should know the truth, there is one last thing that I have to tell you, something you may already have guessed. Again, I'm sorry. I know it will hurt. _

_I am the one who killed your son. If you open that envelope, you'll know why. _

_I know that it will never make it right or be an adequate explanation for you. But sometimes knowing why things happen can help us deal with them. It's better than floundering in the dark and it's better than believing that someone beloved turned away or vanished at the whim of chance. At any rate, this has been true in my experience._

_You can do what you like with this letter. It may help to know that I have my own death sentence waiting. I don't know when it will come, but I promise that it is coming. I will die like the many criminals who've died in the past few years, and given that I was not insane when I committed my crime, that end is perhaps as close to a just one as there can be. Since Kira made his appearance in the world, I think that the word justice has been twisted and misshapen until losing almost all its meaning. But if we take the simplest measure- someone getting what they are owed- then I think my death will come close to being just. There can be no true justice for you, given the horrors you've had to endure, but at the very minimum you were owed an explanation. I've tried to give that, as best I can. _

_Again, I'm truly sorry, both for everything that's happened to you and for what I've done to you._

_Sincerely,_

_Linda Grey_

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><p>"<em>The Fall of Alexander" <em>is an unsettling painting to look at for someone who has not seen a picture of it beforehand. Even then, many art critics and connoisseurs leave the painting with a feeling of simultaneous terror and relief, as if they had seen the corpse of a monster. Those who knew the history of the artist- the few who are shameless enough to read tabloids- know that this is a distinct possibility.

The rumor goes that Alexander the Great was poisoned at the height of his conquering, so many centuries ago, but there is no way to know for sure that this was the case. Nevertheless, in the painting, there is no ambiguity. A beautiful young man, clad in a plain white tunic, lies sprawled on the floor before what seems to be a bed, in a pool of light that has no source. A goblet has fallen from his right hand, staining his finger with dark red liquid that has seeped under his hand. It is easy on first glance to mistake that liquid- undoubtedly wine- for blood.

The young man's face is fair and does bear a certain resemblance to the young conqueror, though many critics and historians noted that the hair was somewhat straighter than the classical depictions. Some complain that whoever the model was, he is far too tall to be a credible Alexander. His face is anguished, but he is looking towards the light, past the viewer staring in at his death scene. There is something gentle about the way the light glows on his features; even in death he is trying to look beyond the dark confines of the room in which he is dying.

On the viewer's left side, the room in the painting is covered with weapons of all kinds, many of them used by the armies of Alexander in their conquering and burning. The darker shade of this room makes it hard to be sure, but some gallery visitors insist that there is blood dripping off several of the blades, spears, and arrows. There are so many that the room itself might be an armory; it is hard to believe that anyone could sleep there. Battle reeks from this side of the painting, and though the dying man is the center of the painting, death feels more tangible when looking at those weapons.

The right side of the room as the viewer regards it is shrouded in darkness. Yet it is this side of the paining that viewers seem to struggle to look at. Most reviews touch upon the laziness of leaving this side in shadow, while others praise the grim element and layers of this dark portion of the canvas. And some say that there is a shadowy figure, hunched and watching the young man in the painting. Certainly there is a group of strokes that could be seen as a watching presence in this side of the painting. What is clear is that no one likes to look at that portion of the painting longer than they have to. Menace lurks there, something that not even the conqueror in the painting could defeat.

When the painting was submitted to the gallery, it came with a note: "This is my apology."

The artist who submitted it died of a heart attack in a mental asylum soon after the painting was accepted into one of the better known galleries in London. Doctors at the hospital said that the note was something the artist had been adamant on keeping with the painting, saying that without the note, the picture was nothing more than color on canvas.

Those who go to see the painting twice tend to agree. Without reading the note, the painting is an arresting, if morbid, classical scene. When the note is read, however, the young man somehow seems to breathe his last before the watcher, and his finger seems to twitch in the wine as if about to accuse his killer. Without the note, the picture is a vivid imaginative feat; with it, the note becomes something to be feared, a snapshot of the aftermath of death converted to color and line.

Viewers wonder, often with a shudder, what kind of wrongdoing could ever be committed that would merit an apology like this one.


End file.
